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MATTHEW  DOYLE. 


BY 

Will   Garland. 


AUTHOR  OF 
BROKEN  LOCKET,"  "CONGRESS."  ETC. 


NEW   YOR  K  : 
G.    W.  Dillingham   Co.,  Publishers, 

MDCCCC. 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BY 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY. 
\AU  rights  rtservcd.] 


Matthew  Doyle. 


i 


TO 

That  solid  class  of  American  Citizens,  North,  South, 
East  and  West,  who  believe  in,  and  work  for,  just  laws 
by  the  legislature,  speedy  interpretation  of  them  by  the 
judiciary,  and  their  fearless  enforcement  by  the  execu- 
tive, this  book  is 

DEDICATED. 


2Q62G53 


PUBLISHERS  NOTICE. 

Matthew  Doyle  will  be  universally  read  and  com- 
mented upon.  Coming  as  it  does,  from  the  pen  of  a 
Southerner  who  entertains  forcible  ideas  on  the  prevail- 
ing evil  of  lynching,  and  who  has  the  power  to  put  those 
ideas  in  telling,  at  times  burning,  words,  the  novel  will 
command  the  attention  of  all,  and  the  support  of  that 
solid  class  of  people  to  whom  it  is  dedicated.  As  a 
story,  Matthew  Doyle  is  interesting  from  the  start,  and 
grows  deeply  fascinating  as  the  simple  plot  is  unfolded. 
The  high  ideals  of  disinterested  friendship  between 
rivals,  unswerving  fealty  to  duty  at  a  tragic  crisis,  and 
the  wages  of  lawlessness,  and  the  reward  of  magnani- 
mity are  woven  together  with  strands  of  love,  laughter 
and  pathos;  and,  at  last,  when  we  see  the  beautiful 
vision  of  a  Yankee  heroine  and  Dixie  hero  in  future's 
dreamland,  we  cry,  "Well  done!" 

The  book  is  written  with  a  true  conception  of  the 
seriousness  of  the  theme  of  Lynch  Law,  and  it  is  not 
too  much  to  prophesy  that  Matthew  Doyle  will  leave  as 
indelible  an  impress  on  the  subject  of  the  day,  as  did 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  on  slavery. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAFTBR  PACK 

I.  "  Them  Butter  Balls."          .         .         .         .11 
II.  Neckties  and  Principle         .         .         .         .26 

III.  "  M' Neil  "  and  "Dear  "        .         .         .         .39 

IV.  Andy  Dodd 52 

V.  Wicked  Bill  Ott    .         .         .         .        .         .61 

VI.  Terrapin  and  Teacher           .         .         .         .68 

VII.  The  Deacon  and  the  Joke    .         .         .         .78 

VHI.  The  Joke       .......     88 

IX.  "  Pedro." 

X.  Judge  Lynch  as  a  Theory    . 

XI.  More  Theories 

XII.  Her? 

XIII.  Deacon— Doyle— Duty 

XIV.  Duty 

XV.  Love  and  Principle      .... 

XVI.  Magnanimity        ..... 
XVII.  Andy  Dodd,  Gent         .... 

XVIII.  Hicks,  Pedro  &  Co 

XIX.  "Help  !" 


10  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XX.  The  Storm  Gathers      .        .  .  .  .216 

XXI.  Judge  Lynch  as  a  Condition  .  .  .227 

XXII.  The  Harvest         .        .        .  .  .  .241 

XXIII.  The  Cost .  251 

XXIV.  The  Roman  Father      .        ,\  .  .  .  258 
XXV.  The  Old  Story— Ever  New  .  .  .274 


MATTHEW  DOYLE. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

"  THEM  BUTTER  BALLS. 

Mat  Doyle  was  leaning  over  the  fence,  a  busy  person 
would  say,  in  a  lazy  attitude,  but  in  fact  not.  Mat  Doyle 
was  such  a  tall,  angular  fellow,  and  looked  so  loose  in  the 
joints — well,  to  catch  at  random  for  an  illustration,  he 
reminded  me  of  one  of  these  bicycles;  just  as  long  as  he 
was  in  motion  it  was  all  right,  but  let  him  come  to  a 
stop  and  there  had  to  be  a  house,  or  fence,  or  something 
of  that  sort  about,  else  Mat,  like  the  bicycle,  would  uncer- 
emoniously obey  the  law  of  gravitation.  Yet  this  wasn't 
laziness  or  indolence;  it  wasn't  from  any  desire  to  lay 
around,  but  simply,  for  one  thing,  Mat  was  none  of  your 
jump-at-a-fact-straddle-a-rule  fellows ;  he  was  deliberative  to 
a  nicety,  even  pausing  to  give  such  a  trivial  and  oft-recur- 
ring operation  as  batting  his  eyes  due  consideration  before 
proceeding  to  bat,  and  hence,  for  another  thing,  when  he 
paused  in  locomotion,  he  leaned — or  reclined:  and  I'm 
sure  that's  a  deal  more  Christian  than  flying  in  the  face 

[it] 


12  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

of  Providence,  and  saying:  "See  here,  Mother  Nature, 
you  put  me  together,  now  attend  to  my  standing  alone." 

So,  on  the  occasion  of  which  I  am  speaking,  Mat  was 
leaning  over  the  fence.  He  held  in  the  crook  of  his  left 
arm  an  inverted  straw  hac,  mostly  straw,  and  very  little 
hat;  but  what  hat  there  was  constituted,  for  the  nonce,  a 
receptacle  for  a  quart  or  so  of  acorns.  A  fine  old  oak 
stood  midway  between  the  house  and  gate,  and  Mat, 
after  work,  and  while  he  was  waiting  on  supper,  in  acorn 
time,  would  come  around  from  the  horse  lot  and  gather 
a  hatful  of  acorns  for  his  pigs. 

It  was  a  study  in — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — say,  suppressed 
speed,  to  watch  Mat  get  his  acorns.  When  he  came  well 
under  the  branches  of  the  oak  he  would  twirl  his  hat  down, 
bottom  side  up,  stoop  over,  and  in  a  creeping  fashion, 
such  as  Indians,  and  robbers,  and  bad  men  in  dime  novels 
assume,  would  circle  around  the  hat,  nipping  in  acorns, 
one,  two,  and  three  at  a  time,  never  missing  an 
acorn,  never  missing  the  hat,  and  never  missing  a 
step.  From  the  moment  he  threw  in  an  armful  of 
fodder  for  the  mules'  dessert,  until  he  came  to  a  halt  at 
the  fence,  Mat  never  stopped.  The  fence  reached,  he 
would  heave  to  with  a  contented  "h-ehy,"  and  begin  call- 
ing, "soo,  pig,  soo-i,  soo-i,  soo-o-o  pig.'''  He  always  called, 
whether  the  pigs  were  there  or  not,  although  they  gen- 
erally managed  to  be  there.  They  lounged  around  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil's  corner  or  Old  Man  Dodd's  post-office  pretty 
much  all  day  in  late  summer,  and  when  the  afternoon  train 
whistled  they  would  start  for  home,  arriving  at  the  fenca 
while  their  master  was  switching  off  for  the  acorns.  Then 
began  a  squealing!  To  glance  at  them,  only  three  fat 
little  Poland  China  shoats,  you  wouldn't  guess  there  was 
so  much  noise  in  them,  but  every  time  Mat  threw  in  an 


"THEM   BUTTER   BALLS."  13 

acorn  they  would  squeal.  I've  often  wondered  why  in 
the  world  Circe  wanted  to  change  her  victims  into  swine: 
she  is  reported  to  have  had  a  good  many  strings  to  her 
mythological  bow,  and  when  they  were  all  so  many  lusty- 
lunged  porkers  bawling  about  her,  it  must  have  sounded 
worse  than  a  session  of  Congress.  I  expect,  though, 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  only  hog-hobbiests,  like  Mat 
Doyle  and  Circe,  have  that  afflatus  to  see  more  in  a  pig  than 
mere  breakfast  bacon  and  lard. 

When  his  pigs  began  saying  grace,  as  Betty  Doyle  called 
it,  Mat's  fingers  flew  a  trifle  faster,  until  shortly  the 
crown  was  brimf ull ;  then  he  would  wheel  back  on  the  main 
line  for  the  fence. 

Mat  loved  everything  on  the  farm — poultry,  cattle — 
all,  with  the  minuteness  of  a  penal  statute,  came  in  for 
a  share  of  his  affection.  Even  old  Ball,  who  had  been  a 
gallant  deer  hound  in  his  day,  but  who  was  now  ending  a 
sportsman's  career  after  the  orthodox  sportsman-like 
fashion,  i.  e.,  telling  monstrous  yarns  to  the  young  dogs 
and  sniffing  contemptuously  at  anything  in  the  way  of 
game  brought  on  the  place  (but  not  refusing  to  eat  the 
nestor's  share,  mind  you),  even  old  Ball  received  his  daily 
kind  word;  but  the  pigs,  "them  butter  balls,"  as  Uncle 
Alec  McXeil  dubbed  them,  stood  away  up,  first  and  fore- 
most in  Mat's  big  heart — of  course,  in  that  part  of  his  heart 
devoted  to  dumb  brutes. 

Whenever  Mother  Doyle  began  to  talk  about  the  smoke- 
house and  what  it  was  going  to  contain  for  the  coming 
winter,  and  otherwise  steer  uncomfortably  close  to  "  them 
butter  balls,"  Mat  would  remark  that  middlin'  was  so 
cheap  along  now  it  would'nt  pay  a  fellow  to  kill  any  for  cold 
weather.  One  evening  Mother  Doyle  joined  him  at  the 
fence  and  exclaimed: 


14  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"  My  land !  Matthew,  won't  they  be  powerful  fat  against 
Thanksgiving?"  and  he  replied,  "Yes'm,  mother,  but 
they'll  be  bigger'n  that  another  year."  And  Mother  Doyle, 
from  whom  her  son  inherited  his  big  heart,  made  up  her 
mind,  then  and  there,  that  those  pigs  would  live  just  as 
long  as  it  was  pleasing  to  Mat  and  the  Lord.  Moreover, 
she  told  Betty,  on  the  quiet,  that  "  Mat's  darlings  shouldn't 
be  touched,"  and  Betty,  who  thought  her  big  brother  was 
absolutely  the  best  old  Mat  in  creation,  and  who  wasn't 
far  wrong,  either,  but  being,  nevertheless,  a  bit  of  a  tease, 
would  ask  him  at  table  how  the  pigs  were  coming  on,  and 
then  add  to  mother: 

"  Oh,  won't  the  sausages  be  glorious  next  Christmas !" 
But  Mother  Doyle  would  tip  her  a  wink  to  quit,  and  Betty, 
who  was  always  too  busy  bringing  in  dishes  and  such  like 
to  sit  down,  would  hug  Mat  and  coddle  him,  company  or 
no  company.  One  evening,  when  Betty  had  poked  some 
innocent  jibe  at  him  and  buried  it  under  a  hug  and  a 
kiss,  Mother  Doyle  said,  a  little  quickly :  "  Never  mind, 
Matthew,  she  just  wants  to  practise  up  for  Andy." 

She  intended  the  sally  to  help  Mat  out,  who  was  slow  at 
such  things  with  the  women  folks,  but  she  forgot,  for  the 
moment,  that  Andy  Dodd's  name  sounded  unpleasing  to 
her  son.  The  twitching  of  his  lips  as  their  smile  swiftly 
faded,  and  the  dropping  of  his  eyes  from  Betty's  face  to 
his  plate,  reminded  her,  and  she  repented  the  words.  How- 
ever, I'm  away  off  from  the  fence.  There  leaned  Mat, 
chucking  acorns  down  and  murmuring,  "soo,  little  fellows, 
soo-i,"  and  he  failed  to  notice  Dud  Trenome  riding  by. 
Dud  almost  passed  Mat,  too,  without  looking  up.  That 
would  have  been  meat  for  talk,  for  the  two  young  men  were 
in  plain  sight  of  three  neighbors'  houses,  to  say  nothing 
of  Uncle  Alec  McNeil,  who,  everybody  said,  could  see 


"THEM   BUTTER  BALLS."  1 5 

right  through  his  customer's  pockets  and  tell  how  much 
money  was  there — and  Uncle  Alec  was  standing  on  his 
store  porch  some  quarter  down  the  street.  Unfortunately 
for  gossip,  the  two  boys — once  babymates,  then  schoolmates, 
and  now  grown-up-mates,  and  never  yet  an  unfriendly  or 
unkind  word  between  them — spied  each  other  at  the  same 
instant,  the  one  through  his  engrossing  pig  feeding  and 
the  other  through  a  spell  of  thinking. 

"  Feedin'  'em,  are  you/'  called  Dud,  giving  his  rein  a 
pull  to  one  side  and  coming  to  the  fence. 

"  Yep — howdy,  how  are  you — soo-i." 

"  Just  so,  so ;  how's  all  ?" 

"  First  rate — though  mother's  been  a-workin'  too  hard." 
That  was  Mat's  standing  opinion — fancied,  for  Mother 
Doyle  had  to  almost  fight  with  him  and  Betty  time  and 
again  to  be  allowed  to  bear  ever  so  small  a  fraction  of  the 
domestic  labor.  Between  you  and  me,  if  we  fellows  always 
fancied  that  same  thing,  we  would'nt  be  hearing  near  so 
much  about  how  run  down  our  mothers  look. 

"  Been  over  to  town  ?"  continued  Mat. 

"Yeh — first  time  I  been  in  in  nigh  a  week,  but  they 
had  a  meeting  to-day." 

"The  directors?" 

"Yeh — an'  I  might  just  as  well  a-stayed  at  home." 

t(  Huh ;  'd  they  go  against  you  ? — soo-i-pigs." 

"Yeh — that's  to  be  expected.  Story  owes  Hicks  for  the 
lumber  in  his  house,  and  'course  he  votes  with  him." 

"  Huh,  that  ain't  right— if  it's  so." 

"  Pshaw,  Mat,  everybody  knows  it's  so ;  Story  never  paid 
a  debt,  'cept  to  make  a  bigger  one." 

"He  paid  me  for  that  cow." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  you,  old  boy,  'cause  there  ain't  any- 
body 'round  here  that's  goin'  to  try  to  beat  you." 


l6  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"  That's  'cause  mother's  a  widder." 

"  No  'taint — it's  'cause  you're  honest — and  anybody 
knows  if  they  try  to  beat  you  there  ain't  a  jury  in  the 
county  but  what'll  give  you  damages." 

"Huh — we  won't   argue  it,   Dud." 

"No;  first  thing  I'd  know  you'd  have  it  proved  to  me 
that  you're  worse'n  Hicks  just  to  carry  your  point." 

Mat  laughed  at  the  compliment  to  his  "  lawyer's  kink," 
which  was  the  name  Dud  gave  it  down  at  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil's  one  night.  He  said:  "Gen'lemen,  I'll  be  dad 
blamed  if  Mat  Doyle  can't  argue  a  man  right  out  of  his 
boots;  he's  got  a  reg'lar  lawyer's  kink — though  Mat's  too 
honest  to  ever  make  a  lawyer,  I'm  here  to  tell  you." 

"  So  they  were  too  many  for  you  ?"  asked  Mat,  referring 
to  Dud's  first  words. 

"  Yeh ;  I'm  glad  my  term's  up  against  another  fall.  Talk 
about  school  director  to  me.  Pshaw!" 

"  What  they  ben  a-doin'  ?" 

"Oh,  you  know  we  been  hanging  fire  on  the  assistant 
up  at  the  school.  There  was  Annie  Eose  and  Tilda  Hum- 
phrey right  here  in  Pike  put  in  their  bids.  Annie  lives 
little  nighest  my  place,  but  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wasn't 
goin'  to  be  partial.  Annie  or  Tilda  suited  me.  "Well,  a 
fellow  from  town  come  down  here  and  bid  in,  and  a  little 
trick  of  a  gal  from  town — she  come  down  and  bid.  I  didn't 
see  her.  I  was  aginst  the  fellow,  'cause  I  believe  in  giving 
the  girls  a  show." 

"  Huh,"  dissented  Mat,  "  that's  why  the  boys  can't  make 
enough  now  to  support  a  wife — the  girls  are  takin'  the 
jobs." 

"  Pshaw,  Mat,  you  can't  argue  me  down  on  that ;  I  don't 
care  what  sort  of  proof  you  bring.  Those  old  codgers — • 


"THEM   BUTTER  BALLS."  I/ 

Plato  and  all  the  rest,  who've  been  dead  two  thousand  years 
— can't  ram  any  such  stuff  in  my  head." 

"  Now,  Dud,"  began  Mat,  throwing  down  the  last  acorn 
and  clapping  his  headgear  on  firmly;  "you  know  women 
are  taking  the  boys'  work  away  from  'em  right  and  left; 
look  at  every  district  school  in  forty  miles " 

"  That  ain't  it,  Mat,"  broke  in  Dud,  "  that  ain't  it,  Sit 
all.  If  you  get  started  right  you  can  beat  any  of  us 
arguing,  but  you're  way  off  the  trail.  I  say,  give  the 
girls  all  such  work  as  teaching  schools  that  they  want. 
What's  teaching  school  for  a  big,  strapping  buck  like  you  or 
me?  You  ain't  heard  of  any  girl  takin'  a  plough-hand's 
job  here  lately,  and  you  ain't  likely  to,  but  I  know  lots  of 
boys  right  here  in  this  county  who  have  jumped  up  and 
quit  farm  work — gone  on  the  railroad  or  into  town — 
learned  enough  to  gamble,  get  drunk,  spend  more'n  their 
pay,  and  then  get  fired;  and  what  do  they  do?  Loaf 
around,  hunting  a  set-down  job  and  mouthin'  about  the 
girls  bein'  teachers,  and  clerks,  and  typewriters,  and  that 
kind  of  thing.  There's  enough  open  land  in  this  state  to 
support  twice  as  many  people  as  we've  got :  let  those  boys 
come  back  here  and  follow  a  plough  like  you  and  me,  and 
I'll  bet  they  can  find  plenty  of  gals  to  cook  up  what  they 
raise/" 

"Dud,  you  agrue  too  close;  yon  want  all  the  boys 
farming." 

"  No — nope — no,  I  don't.  Mat.  Get  part  of  the  boys 
farmin'  and  kep  'em  at  it,  and  there'll  be  enough  surplus 
stuff  raised  for  nearly  all  the  rest  to  make  up  into  some- 
thing useful;  and  then  the  few  that's  left  over — the  runts 
— those  who  are  kinder  puny  like,  can  ship  it  and  sell  it. 
The  engines  do  all  the  pullin',  anyhow;  they'd  just  have 
to  put  it  on  the  cars ;  and  as  for  sellin'  it  and  exchanging 


18  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

it,  it  don't  require  a  great  sight  of  heavy  labor  to  do  that. 
If  it's  a  good  article,  it  sells  itself,  and  if  it  ain't,  fellows 
like  Uncle  Alec  McXeil  can  sell  it  just  the  same." 

The  two  friends  laughed  and  Mat  shifted  the  conversa- 
tion back  again. 

"  Well,  about  the  assistant — did  you  get  one  ?" 

"Yeh — they  did;  I  didn't  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
As  I  was  tellin'  you,  there  was  four  bids — Annie  and  Tilda 
and  the  man  from  town — Bryant,  or  some  such  name — and 
this  little  snip  from  town — her  name's  Hennon." 

"You  never  saw  her?" 

"  No ;  she  came  down  and  went  back  the  same  day — put 
in  her  bid  with  Hicks.  The  boys  say  she  wasn't  bigger'n 
a  partridge, — but  they  voted  her  in." 

"Huh;  so  she  got  it." 

"Yeh;  and  she  had  the  least  bid  of  all.  Annie  and 
Tilda  bid  thirty  dollars;  the  town  fellow,  thirty-five,  and 
this  Hennon  gal  knocked  it  down  to  twenty-five;  and, 
gen'lemen,  I'm  here  to  tell  you,  when  they  commence 
knockin'  down  on  as  high  a  profession  as  teaching,  it's 
time  to  quit.'' 

"  Huh,"  grunted  Mat,  "  teaching's  nothin'." 

"  Nothin' !"  Dud  exclaimed,  and  then  solemnly :  "  Mat 
Doyle,  do  you  and  me  want  our  children  (they  were  both 
bachelors,  and  not  even  engaged)  to  be  instructed  by  a 
person  who  values  learnin'  so  little  that  they'll  cut  it  down 
to  twenty-five  dollars?" 

Mat's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  drawled : 

"  Huh,  Dud,  teaching,  and  clerking,  and  typewriting 
ain't  anything  much." 

Dud,  laughing  heartily  at  the  trap  he  had  fallen  into, 
reached  over  and  tapped  Mat  playfully  with  his  whip,  and 
replied :  "I  see  I've  got  to  give  up  somethin' ;  have  it  your 


"THEM   BUTTER  BALLS."  19 

way,  you  old  lawyer,  but  I  stick  to  it,  I  don't  believe  in 
cuttin'  down  on  a  teacher's  pay." 

"  Nobody  makes  'em  cut  down,  Dud." 

"  That's  just  what  I  hold,  and  when  they  come  doin'  it, 
I  don't  place  much  value  on  their  ability  to  teach,  do  you  ?" 

Mat  changed  his  position  a  little,  and  pushed  back  his 
hat  as  he  answered  cautiously: 

"  Not  as  a  general  thing ;  but  when  a  person's  got  to 
make  his  own  living,  especially  a  woman,  in  these  hard 
times,  it  gets  to  be  a  purty  shaving  business;  I  tell  you, 
want  cuts  mighty  keen." 

'*' 'Course,  'course;  true  enough,  Mat,  but  the  boys  all 
say  this  little  school  marm  from  town  was  dressed  slick  as 
you  please;  feathers,  and  ribbons,  and  what  not,  and  I 
think  if  the  wolf  was  gnawing  through  the  door  she  could 
a-sorter  halted  him  with  her  finery  before  throwin'  a 
five-dollar  bill  at  him." 

"  Yep,  that's  so,  if  'twas  like  the  boys  say.  Who'd  you 
vote  for — the  highest  bidder?" 

"  No-o ;  I  told  you  Annie  or  Tilda,  either  one,  was  my 
candidates.  That  cuss  who  run  it  to  thirty-five  dollars — 
pshaw!  I  wouldn't  a- voted  for  him  if  he'd  a-offered  to 
teach  free.  I  didn't  vote.  I  said,  'Gen'lemen,  here's  two 
Pike  County  girls,  biddin'  at  thirty  dollars  apiece — 
needin'  it  bad ;  good  girls,  neighbors ;  I'm  for  either  one — 
pick  straws  between  'em.  If  you're  goin'  out  of  Pike 
County  to  teach  Pike  County  boys  and  girls,  d — d  if  I'll 
vote !" 

"Dudley,"  remonstrated  Mat,  "you  didn't  cuss,  did 
you,  and  Deacon  Hicks  right  there?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  Mat;  made  me  so  mad  to  see  our  home 
talent  treated  that  way,  I  up  and  cussed,  and  I  don't  give 


2O  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

a — beg  pardon,  Mat — I  don't  care  if  Hicks  does  superin- 
tend the  Sunday  School." 

Mat  saw  Dud  was  getting  wrought  up,  so  he  returned 
to  the  salary  question,  easy  like. 

"  But,  Dud,  I  thought  you  believed  in  good  pay." 

"Why,  don't  I?" 

"  You  didn't  vote  for  the  thirty-five-dollar  bidder." 

"  Pshaw,  he's  a  man,  an'  besides,  thirty  dollars'll  sup- 
port a  teacher  here  handsomely !  Thirty -five  dollars  !  and 
him  a  man,  and  single !  Gosh,  he  wanted  a  good  thing, 
I  reckon." 

"Oh!  I  see,"  murmured  Mat,  innocently. 

"  'Course,"  Dud  went  on,  thinking  he  had  him.  "  When 
you  look  at  it  right,  I  knew  you  would.  But  I  couldn't 
make  them  see  it.  They  picked  the  town  girl,  and  all 
over  a  paltry  five-dollar  note.  I'd  a-been  willin'  to  give  the 
county  the  difference." 

Mat  smiled  at  the  varying  magnitudes  Dud  gave  to 
five  dollars,  enlarging  and  contracting  it  with  the  ease  of 
a  capitalist,  or  national  banker. 

"  Hicks  got  mad  over  it,  too,"  Dud  pursued. 

"  Huh,   something   new,   Hicks   losing  his   temper." 

"Well,  he  didn't  exactly,  as  you  might  say,  lose  his 
temper.  He  thought  I  was  votin'  against  the  town  marm 
'cause  she  was  from  New  Hampshire,  when  I  didn't  know 
she  was  from  there  till  he  said  so.  After  I  made  my 
speech  and  told  'em  I  wouldn't  go  outside  of  Pike,  Hicks 
said  something  about  my  not  wanting  Miss  Hennon  'cause 
she  was  from  up  yonder.  You  know  he  bites  and  chews 
his  words  till  you  have  to  guess  at  half  he  says,  but  I 
heard  'Miss  Hennon'  an'  'New  Hampshire/  and  I  said., 
'  I  don't  keer  where  she  comes  from — Xew  Hampshire  or 
New  Zealand's  all  the  same  to  me — the  question  is,  we've 


"THEM  BUTTER  BALLS."  21 

got  merit  in  Pike  County,  and  if  we're  goin'  to  go  outside 
of  Pike.,  what's  the  use  of  teaching  the  children  at  all? 
There  bein'  educated  won't  get  'em  a  job  here,  'cause  we'll 
have  to  be  forever  importin'  our  teachers  and  the  like. 

Mat  opened  his  lips  to  say  something,  very  probably 
argue  the  point  with  Dud,  when  Betty  called  from  the 
porch  that  supper  was  ready,  and  then,  recognizing  Dud, 
she  tripped  down  the  front  steps  and  came  along  the  walk, 
fanning  her  flushed  face  for  dear  life  with  her  apron. 

"Hello,  Betty,"  called  Dud,  while  Mat  turned  his  head 
towards  her  and  put  in : 

"  Come  here,  Betsy ;  I've  got  four  pigs  out  here," 
pointing  to  Dud,  who  was  leaning  on  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle. 

"  Ha !  that  fourth  must  a-been  lost  In  the  range," 
Betty  replied,  and  then  to  Dud: 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  say  hello  to  you  or 
not;  you're  such  a  stranger." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  been  powerful  busy." 

"I  say  busy!  Sparkin'  all  those  purty  girls  back  of  your 
place." 

"No,  I  ain't  Betty,  and  if  I  knew  you  wasn't  just  fishing 
for  a  compliment,  I'd  tell  you  on  which  side  of  my  place 
the  purtiest  girl  lives,"  and  Dud  winked  at  Mat,  who  was 
very  much  tickled  to  see  somebody  tease  Betty — he  never 
could. 

"  Then  what's  kept  you  away  ?"  asked  Betty,  coming  to 
her  brothers  side  and  twisting  his  ear  for  laughing  at 
Dud's  banter. 

"  That  last  book  Mat  lent  me ;  it's  such  a  long  one,  and 
BO  interestin',  I  ain't  laid  it  down  hardly  long  enough  to 
feed  my  stock  or  me." 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  queried  Mat. 


22  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"First  rate,  though  I  didn't  like  the  way  that  girl 
acted." 

"  Which  book  is  it,  Mat?"  Betty  asked. 

"Ten  Thousand  a  Year." 

"Oh!  Have  you  been  reading  that?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Well,  I  should  say  it  is  long;  but  it's  fine,  though.  I 
read  it — at  least  I  read  all  about  Kate  and  that  Earl,  or 
what-you-may-call-him — wasn't  he  grand?  But  I  couldn't 
stand  the  rest;  that  Titmouse  man — ugh!  wasn't  he  a 
wretch  r 

"What  was  wrong  with  the  girl?"  interposed  Mat, 
who  scented  a  struggle. 

"Why,  when  she  and  her  folks  lost  their  home  and 
that  fellow  Betty  mentioned — the  youngster  who  got  beat 
for  Parliament — when  he  wanted  to  help  her  and  the 
rest  she  wouldn't  have  it.  Now  I  hold  that  was  wrong — 
plain  foolishness." 

"  She  couldn't  accept  aid  from  him,"  Mat  remarked. 

"  Pshaw !  Yes  she  could,  if  she  hadn't  been  so  proud. 
Pride  don't  mix  with  poverty  worth  a  cuss." 

"  But  you  see,  he  loved  her." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  for  him  helpin'  her  and 
her  takin'  it ;  what's  love  good  for,  anyhow,  if  it  can't  stand 
all  sorts  of  weather;  and  what  was  the  sense  of  lettin'  her 
brother  go  to  jail,  and  all  of  ?em  livin'  on  suff ranee,  you 
might  say,  when  that  boy  was  just  a-itching  to  help  'em 
out  ?  If  I'd  a-been  him,  dog-goned  if  I  wouldn't  a-gone  to 
a  store  and  said:  'Here,  you  send  those  folks  everything 
they  need  right  along  and  charge  to  me." 

"  That's  all  right,  Dud ;  but  there's  the  principle  of  the 
thing  you've  got  to  look  at." 

"  Principle  be  hanged !    Mat,  you're  the  beatenest  fellow 


"THEM   BUTTER  BALLS.'*  23 

about  principle.  Principle  didn't  pay  their  debts.  Prin- 
ciple didn't " 

"But  look  here,  Dud "  Mat  was  about  to  launch 

out,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  lug  in  all  those  codgers  who, 
Dud  said,  had  been  cold  for  twenty  centuries,  but  Betty 
broke  up  the  impromptu  debate.  She  wasn't  much  of  a 
hand  to  either  argue  or  listen  to  it.  Her  opinions  wouldn't 
bear  arguing;  not  that  they  were  necessarily  wrong,  but 
she  said  she  wasn't  going  to  the  trouble  of  forming  notions 
and  then  be  argued  out  of  them;  let  people  keep  their 
views  and  she  would  do  likewise.  So,  without  ado,  she 
said,  throwing  her  arm  around  Mat's  shoulder: 

"  Supper  ain't  goin'  to  wait  on  Ten  Thousand  A  Year, 
and  by  the  time  you  two  have  your  hands  washed  I'll  have 
Dud's  horse  'round  to  the  barn  and  feedin.'  '' 

"Much  obliged,  Betty,  but  I  come  off  and  left  my 
window  up." 

"  Oh !  who's  goin'  to  steal  anything  from  an  old  bach- 
elor like  you,  and  if  they  do  it  won't  matter;  maybe  it'll 
teach  you  to  get  one  of  those  girls  back  in  the  hills  to  come 
and  keep  house." 

She  came  out  of  the  gate  as  she  spoke  and  stood  by 
his  pony's  bridle,  and  continued.  "  Light  and  go  in — 
my  cookin'  ain't  a-goin'  to  hurt  you." 

Mother  Do}-le  appeared  on  the  porch  at  that  moment. 
Betty  and  Mat  not  coming,  she  stepped  out  to  see  if  the 
pigs  had  run  off  with  them. 

"Is  that  you,  Dudley?"  she  called,  shading  her  eyes. 
"  Well,  your  plate's  on  the  table,  so  you  needn't  be  settin' 
up  there  like  you  just  stopped  to  say  howdy.  'Light  and 
come  in." 

"There,  now,"  said  Betty. 

"Um — huh,"  remarked  Mat. 


24  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Dud  slid  down,  as  Mother  Doyle's  word  was  the  end 
of  the  question,  and  Betty  vaulted  sideways  into  the 
saddle  and  cantered  around  up  the  lane.  Dud  came  on 
through  the  gate,  and  while  he  and  Mat  advanced  up  the 
walk  he  called  to  Mother  Doyle : 

"  I  been  out  here  half  an  hour,  but  Mat,  he  was  too 
busy  disputin'  everything  I  said  to  ask  me  in." 

"  I  wouldn't  a-let  him  rode  off,  mother." 

Mother  Doyle  laughed  as  she  replied: 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  to  be  asked  in  our  house,  Dud- 
ley," and  as  the  boys  came  up  the  steps  she  bent  over  and 
gave  Dud's  hand  a  kindly  shake,  at  the  same  time  taking 
both  their  hats  and  saying  to  Mat: 

"The  pigs?" 

"Beautiful,  mother,  you  ought  to  a-seen  'em  this  even- 
ing; they're  fatter  than  they  were  yesterday." 

Betty's  bustling  figure  appeared  in  the  hall.  She  had 
turned  the  pony  over  to  a  hand  and  hurried  in,  and  she 
added  to  Mat's  words,  winking  at  Dud: 

"Yes,  ma,  I  never  saw  anything  like  it;  Uncle  Alec 
McXeil  calls  'em  butter  balls,  but  I  declare  they  look  like 
sausage  balls  to  me." 

"  Well,  Dud,"  broke  off  Mat,  suddenly  losing  all  interest 
in  pork  or  its  concomitants,  "  let's  go  and  wash  up ;  Betty 
says  supper  beats  time  and  tide  at  this  ranch." 

They  turned  in  the  large  hall,  at  one  end  of  which  was 
a  washstand,  and  while  Mat  was  pouring  a  bowl  for  Dud, 
the  latter  called  to  Betty,  who  was  now  in  the  kitchen: 

"Bet,  how  d'you  like, the  pony?" 

"  Fine — when'd  you  get  her  ?" 

"Last  week;  she's  only  a  colt." 

"  She's  well  broke ;  I'm  going  to  get  ma  to  buy  her 
when  she  gets  her  growth." 


"THEM   BUTTER  BALLS."  2$ 

As  she  said  that  she  came  ru'stling  into  the  dining  room 
with  a  big  tray  of  biscuits  and  fried  potatoes. 

"  I  won't  sell  her,  Bet— but  tell  you  what  I'll  do :  When 
you  and  Andy " 

Dud  vas  looking  mischievously  at  Mother  Doyle,  but 
she  held  her  finger  up  so  quickly  that  he  paused  abruptly 
and  stepped  over  to  the  basin : 

"  You  waitin'  on  me,  Mat  ?  Beg  pardon — thought  you 
were  washing." 

He  plunged  in,  while  Mat  made  no  reply,  but  took  the 
pitcher  to  the  well.  Mother  Doyle  seized  the  instant  to 
approach  Dud  and  whisper,  while  she  unfolded  the  towel: 

"Andy's  drinkin'  agin." 

"  Oh !"  Dud  exclaimed,  softly,  "  111  be  careful,  then," 
and  he  murmured,  behind  the  suds:  "Poor  Betty,  she 
ought  to  marry  him  or  bounce  him,  one  'r  the  other." 

Which  constrains  me  to  remark,  that  those  alternatives 
are  sometimes  very  like  the  proverbial  forks  of  the  road, 
where,  whichever  fork  you  take,  you  are  shortly  very  sorry 
you  took  it. 


CHAPTER  II. 

NECKTIES    AND    PRINCIPLE. 

That  night,  after  supper,  Mat  rode  home  with  Dud.  Mat 
never  had  been  much  of  a  ladies'  man.  When  he  wasn't 
working  he  generally  betook  himself  to  his  little  room  and 
snugged  away  his  leisure  moments  reading.  He  possessed 
an  old  arm  chair,  which  had  been  brought  up  from  tho 
sitting  room — a  chair  that  must  surely  have  been  built 
for  a  contortionist,  for  Mat  never  could  sit  upright  in  it. 

He  would  select  a  book  out  of  his  meagre  but  sub- 
stantial collection,  and  flop  into  his  big  chair,  one  foot 
on  the  bedstead,  window-sill,  or  stove,  the  other  flung  over 
an  arm  of  the  chair,  head  within  whispering  distance  of 
the  seat,  and  in  that  fix  he  would  read  until  Betty  called 
for  meals,  or  the  book  run  out,  or  the  blood  all  dammed 
up  in  his  cranium. 

He  often  read  on  into  twilight,  and  by  so  doing  caused 
Mother  Doyle  to  peep  in  and  tell  him  how  his  grandpa 
ruined  his  sight  that  very  way.  But  either  Mat  thought 
his  eyes  were  much  more  dusk  proof  than  his  late  grand- 
father's, or  else  he  was  too  absorbed  in  his  book.  I  have 
said  before,  Mat  wasn't  lazy,  for  he  would  give  a  little  grunt, 
shift  nearer  the  window,  and  continue  reading. 

So  Mother  Doyle  and  Betty  were  always  glad  when  Mat 
took  a  little  turn  about,  and  that  evening  Mother  Doyle 
was  a  bit  more  glad  than  usual. 

Dud  had  told,  at  the  table,  all  about  the  new  school- 
[26] 


NECKTIES  AND  PRINCIPLE.  2? 

marm,  and  had  said  he  thought  she  would  report  soon.  In 
fact,  the  school  opened  very  early  in  September,  and  that 
was  the  end  of  August. 

This  new  schoolmarm  set  Mother  Doyle  thinking — 
thinking  very  vigorously  along  the  line  of  domestic  econ- 
omy. She  was  an  adept  in  that  science:  First,  a  novice 
from  necessity;  then  growing  into  an  artist,  solving  and 
resolving  that  puzzle  of  making  both  ends  meet — and, 
what's  more,  keeping  them  there — and  all  the  while  finding 
she  liked  it  "rael  weel";  which  we  all  do  when  we  see 
the  only  way  of  getting  round  a  thing  is  to  tackle  it  square 
broadside — Deweyize  it,  like. 

This  making  both  ends  meet  is  a  mighty  close  study, 
and,  for  that  reason,  domestic  economy  is  entitled  to  be 
called  an  accurate  science.  In  proof  whereof,  take  more  out 
of  the  larder  than  you  put  in,  and  it  is  no  mathematical 
trick  at  all  to  figure  how  long  or  how  short  the  larder  will 
remain  unmortgaged.  Or,  to  drop  into  lecture-hall  drone, 
take  hold  of  this  science  in  the  concrete  and  treat  it  as  a 
mere  approximate  problem,  and  it  will  speedily  loom  up  in 
lurid  light  as  an  accurate  affair,  something  that  you  can't 
handle  as  a  weather  signal,  trusting  to  luck,  wind  and 
gullibility. 

Mother  Doyle  had  come  abreast  of  it  after  her  husband's 
death,  when  Mat  was  a  youngster  and  Betty  in  arms. 
Widowhood,  two  helpless  children,  and  a  mortgaged  farm 
on  account  of  her  husband's  having  uncorked  too  many  jugs, 
were  dark-visaged  couriers  of  hard  times,  especially  for  a 
woman  who  had  been  reared  in  plenty.  But  hard  times 
received  a  warm  welcome.  Mother  Doyle  tucked  up  her 
sleeves  and  went  at  them.  She  sold  everything  that  was 
more  ornamental  than  useful  in  the  house;  she  managed 
with  fewer  hands ;  lastly,  she  disposed  of  the  small  library, 


28  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

keeping  only  twelve  or  fifteen  of  the  best  books — for  Mat, 
in  childhood,  showed  his  unfortunate  father's  predilection 
for  reading. 

In  short,  she  was  determined  to  make  those  trouble'some 
ends  meet,  and  make  them  meet  she  did.  Hard  times 
found  no  whining  victim  at  her  house,  so  they  ambled  on 
down  to  Uncle  Alec  McNeil's  corner  and  were  given  a 
comfortable  welcome  among  the  whittling  fraternity,  who 
would  be  at  a  loss  for  something  to  do  without  hard  times. 
On  this,  our  early  acquintance  with  the  Doyles,  the  farm 
was  free,  they  had  two  tenant  families,  Mat  was  a  prize  for 
work  and  steadiness,  while  Betty,  grown  to  womanhood, 
was  a  gem  for  cellar  and  ground  floor  and  garret.  And 
the  simple  secret  of  it  all  was,  Mother  Doyle's  faculty  to 
make  a  few  dollars  and  an  iron  will  work  in  double  harness. 
It  was  beautiful  to  see  how  they  worked,  bringing  the 
Doyle  affairs  gradually  around  from  bankruptcy  to  com- 
petency— plain  and  unfrilled  competency,  to  be  sure,  but 
independent  competency;  and  that  word  marks  the  only 
period  where  breath  is  worth  the  breathing.  Just  along 
here,  as  we  have  seen,  comes  Dud  Trenome,  and  with  his 
school-marm  news  sets  Mother  Doyle  a-pondering. 

"  Betty,"  she  began,  after  the  table  was  set  for  the  next 
morning  and  they  were  started  on  a  piece  of  quilting : 

"Betty,  what  did  Dud  say  that  new  teacher's  name 
was?" 

"  Hennon,  wasn't  it,  ma — or  something  that  way?" 

"I  believe  it  was.  I  was  pouring  the  coffee  when  he 
mentioned  it,  but  seems  to  me  'twas  Hennon.  I  guess  she'll 
come  down  to  see  about  board  soon  as  they  notify  her." 

"  Yes'm,  I  reckon  so — don't  reckon  Dud'll  meet  her  at 
the  depot,  do  you,  ma?  Poor  Dud,  he  said  that  finished 
him  with  school  directin'." 


NECKTIES  AND  PRINCIPLE.  29 

"  Well,  of  course,  we  all  would  have  liked  to  seen  one  of 
Pike's  girls  get  it,  but  they  wouldn't  bid  low  enough,  and, 
you  know,  Betty,  counties  and  states  have  to  economize 
just  as  well  as  other  folks." 

"  Yes'm." 

"And  twenty-five  dollars  will  board  the  new  teacher, 
and  more  besides." 

"  Why,  ma,  she  can't  get  board  for  less  than  fifteen,  and 
there's  her  washing,  another  dollar,  at  the  very  lowest,  and 
I  reckon  she'd  want  to  go  into  town  once  a  month,  any- 
how, so  there's  another  dollar  for  her  ticket,  both  ways, 
and  that  only  leaves  her  eight  dollars." 

"  That's  all  true  enough,  Betty,  if  she  has  to  pay  fifteen 
for  board. 

"  Land  sakes,  ma,  you  know  there's  only  one  place  to  go 
since  Mrs.  Dodd  died,  and  that's  Mrs.  McNeil's,  and  she 
always  charges  that." 

"  Mrs.  McNeil's  ain't  the  only  place,  Betty ;  I  don't  care 
what  it  lias  been,  but  it  ain't  now.  I'll  board  her  for  twelve 
and  a  half." 

"  You !" 

This  was  a  surprise  to  Betty.  Mother  Doyle  calculated  it 
would  be,  and  she  had  decided  to  out  with  it  abruptly,  so 
that  Betty  could  regain  her  balance,  and  then  discuss  the 
why  and  why  not  of  the  thing  before  Mat  returned.  The 
shock,  however,  seemed  to  have  jarred  Betty's  small  debative 
bump  completely  out  of  place.  She  sewed  in  silence,  at 
a  great  rate  for  three  or  four  minutes,  and  then  looked  up 
laughingly  and  said: 

"  Dud's  getting  to  be  a  stranger  as  it  is,  ma,  and  if  we 
board  '  that  bunch  of  feathers/  as  he  called  her,  we'd  never 
see  hair  nor  hide  of  him  any  more." 

"  Tut,"  replied  Mother  Doyle,  "  I  know  Dud  of  old.    If 


3O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

she's  as  fine-feathered  as  the  boys  told  him,  he'll  be  sparkin* 
her  'fore  the  next  moon." 

Betty  sewed  on  for  another  short  stretch,  and  presently 
ventured : 

"  I  reckon  Mrs.  McNeil  has  already  got  her." 

"  I'll  find  that  out  to-morow,  and  if  she  hasn't,  what  do 
you  think  about  us  boardin'  her?" 

Mother  Doyle  was  anxious  to  come  to  the  merits  of  the 
case,  for  Betty  was  the  one  she  wanted  to  gain  over. 

"  It  would  just  be  more  work  on  you,  ma." 

"  Gracious,  Betty,  you  and  Mat  let  me  do  little  enough, 
anyhow,  except  boss  around." 

Betty  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  Mother  Doyle  returned 
to  the  charge  with  the  main  point :  "  You  know,  Betsy 
(she  always  called  her  Betsy  at  the  persuasive  stage),  we 
agreed  not  to  touch  Maf  s  pigs,  and  that  will  pinch  the 
smoke-house.  If  the  cholera  hadn't  taken  the  sow  and  her 
litter,  'twould  have  been  all  right ;  but  now  it's  those  Poland 
Chinas  or  else  we'll  have  to  buy.  If  we  get  the  school- 
marm  at  twelve  and  a  half,  cheap  as  that  is,  it'll  buy  our 
winter  meat,  save  Mat's  pigs,  and  not  cramp  us  anywhere 
else  about  the  place.  You  know  Mat  dotes  on  those  pigs." 

If  Betty  had  entertained  any  misgivings  as  to  the  inno- 
vation of  taking  a  boarder,  she  discarded  them.  She  would 
have  given  up  her  best  frock  cheerfully  for  Mat's  sake,  and, 
that  aside,  wasn't  she  showing  right  along  the  devotion  she 
bore  him?  I  think  so,  for  she  held  off  with  Andy  Dodd 
because  Mat  showed  in  a  quiet  way — no  blustering  nor 
storming,  mind  you — riot  even  a  word  of  objection,  but  just 
by  grim  silence,  that  he  didn't  like  Andy  as  a  prospective 
brother-in-law,  or,  rather,  as  any  but  a  sober  brother-in- 
law.  So  Betty  grounded  her  needle  and  came  over  to  the 
new  idea  with  a  most  encouraging  vim  to  Mother  Doyle. 


NECKTIES  AND   PRINCIPLE.  31 

"But,  ma,"  she  said,  suddenly,  while  they  were  going 
over  the  details ;  "  you  mustn't  go  to  workin'  yourself  down 
if  we  get  her." 

"Who,  me?  Why,  child,  before  I  was  half  as  stout 
as  I  am  now,  I  run  this  farm  with  you  teething  and  Mat 
to  patch  for,  and  I'd  rather  patch  for  three  men  than  a 
scamp  the  size  Mat  was  then." 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  McNeil  hasn't  got  her,"  said  Betty,  recur- 
ring to  that  possibility. 

"  We'll  find  that  out  to-morrow,  but  I  don't  guess  she 
has  this  soon.  I  doubt  if  she's  heard  of  it." 

"  I'll  be  bound  she  knew  it  before  they  voted — that  old 
woman  is  as  oaa  ior  new^  as  uncle  Alec  McNeil  is  for 
stealing." 

"  Oh,  oh !  stealing's  a  hard  word,  didn't  you  know  it  ?" 
remonstrated  Betty's  mother. 

"  Yes'm — but  what  else  are  you  goin'  to  call  it,  charging 
way  yonder  on  everything,  and  such  as  it  is,  too." 

"Well,  Betty,  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  has  to  live,  you 
know,  and  if  people  don't  like  his  prices  they  can  trade 
somewhere's  else." 

"But  those  poor  niggers  who  mortgage  to  him;  they 
can't  mortgage  in  town,  and  his  is  the  only  store  out 
here  where  they  can  get  supplied  regular,  and  everybody 
knows  how  he  grinds  them.  I  call  it  worse  than  stealing." 

Mother  Doyle  heaved  a  little  sigh.  She  had  thought 
of  those  things  often,  and  in  pretty  much  the  same  light 
as  Betty,  but  she  reproved  her  gently  with:  "Judge  not, 
Betsy;  judge  not.  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  loves  a  dollar,  it's 
true,  but  so  do  the  folks  who  trade  with  him.  I  guess  it's 
dog  eat  dog  most  of  the  time  at  his  place." 

Betty  gave  a  sniff,  signifying  great  contempt  for  Uncle 


31  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

Alec  McNeil  and  all  his  tribe,  and,  glancing  at  the  clock, 
remarked : 

"Mat's  started  home,  I  reckon.  I'll  fix  him  a  bite. 
Say,  ma,  shall  we  tell  him  about  the  teacher  to-night?" 

"  I  guess  we'd  better.  I  don't  want  Mat  to  think  we  are 
keeping  secrets  from  him — only  we  needn't  tell  him  it's  on 
account  of  the  pigs." 

"  I  think  he  ought  to  like  the  plan.  The  teacher's  sure 
to  be  one  of  the  reading  kind,  and  that  would  tickle  Mat." 

"  It  might,  if  she  was  a  man ;  but  I'm  afraid  Mat  will 
crawl  into  his  shell  like  he  always  does  when  women  are 
about." 

"  I'll  make  him  crawl  out  if  she  boards  with  us.  Good- 
ness, ma !  he's  the  only  one  of  us  who  could  keep  her  much 
interested,  with  his  books  and  arguings;  and  if  Mat's  ever 
going  to  crawl  out  of  his  shell  after  women  he'd  better 
begin  'fore  he's  toothless.  I  declare,  I  hope  the  teacher 
will  be  the  means  of  showing  him  that  women  folks  ain't 
varmints." 

The  sound  of  Mat's  horse  going  through  the  lane  broke 
on  their  hearing,  and  Mother  Doyle  told  Betty  to  throw 
the  back  door  open  so  that  Mat  could  see  the  light,  mean- 
while taking  stitches  vigorously,  as  though  gathering  force 
for  some  sort  of  an  encounter. 

"Well,  are  you  back?"  they  both  asked,  as  Mat  came 
in  and  threw  his  hat  on  a  chair. 

"  Yeh ;  Dud  tried  to  persuade  me  to  stay  over  night,  but 
I  knew  you'd  think  the  hobgoblins  had  run  off  with  me." 

"Did  Dud  get  over Jris  upset?"  queried  Betty,  eyeing 
Mother  Doyle. 

"What?  Oh!  You  mean  about  the  teacher?  No;  he 
ain't  reconciled  to  her  yet ;  -but  he  will  be  when  he  sees 
it's  no  use  holding  off." 


NECKTIES  AND   PRINCIPLE.  33 

"That's  what  I  told  Betty,"  joined  in  Mother  Doyle. 
"  S'l,  Betty,  mark  my  word,  Dud'll  be  courtin'  her  if  she's 
a  right  smart-looking  girl." 

"  Huh !  I  don't  know  whether  he'll  get  that  far  along. 
He  says  he  ain't  going  about  the  school  house.  Says  she 
can  teach  Hindoo  up  there  for  his  part." 

"  Well,"  spoke  Mother  Doyle,  dropping  her  sewing  and 
facing  around.  "He  can  run  up  on  her  at  other  places — 
for  instance,  if  she  boards  here." 

"  Here !" 

Mat,  for  the  moment,  was  as  bereft  of  speech  as  Betty 
had  been;  then  he  sat  down  and  made  a  silent  onslaught 
on  some  cold  chicken. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mother  Doyle,  following  up  surprise  num- 
ber two. 

"  Betty  and  I  were  talldn'  it  over,  and  I  believe  all  three 
of  us  will  like  it  if  she  boards  with  us.  Of  course,  we 
don't  know  anything  about  her,  but  if  we  ever  do,  we'll 
have  to  find  it  out  ourselves.  You  both  know  I  never  was 
much  on  what  people  say  of  each  other.  I've  seen  folks 
with  shining  reputations  who  were  very  lame  creatures 
at  bottom.  If  she  boards  with  us,  and  we  don't  like  her,  we 
can  mighty  soon  tell  her  so,  and  if  she  don't  like  us,  there 
won't  be  any  offense  in  her  going  elsewhere.  Betty  and  I 
would  both  enjoy  her  company;  we  ain't  so  awful  bad 
to  get  along  with,  and  I  don't  guess  she'll  be,  and  bein'  a 
teacher,  Mat,  and  no  doubt  up  on  books,  you  and  she  ought 
to  do  splendidly." 

"  Huh,  I  'spect  I'd  be  too  countrified  for  her ;  you  know 
she's  a  city  girl,  mother." 

"  Tut,  town  folks  may  get  the  news  a  little  quicker'n 
you,  but  you  ain't  behind  them  on  learnin'." 

Mat  ate  on  in  silence.    As  I  have  hinted,  he  wasn't  a 


34  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

— < 

great  hand  at  arguing  with  the  women.  When  he  agreed 
with  them  he  simply  said  "Huh,  that's  so/'  or  something 
of  the  kind.  When  he  disagreed,  he  shut  his  mouth,  or 
changed  the  subject;  not  because  he  thought  a  woman's 
opinion  wasn't  worth  discussion;  he  venerated  any  stand 
they  took  on  any  question,  and  if  he  couldn't  side  with 
them  he  would  explain  afterwards,  that,  though  a  woman 
mightn't  be  able  to  bring  out  her  proposition  in  logical 
sequence,  yet  she  had  such  a  keen  sense  of  guessing,  that  all 
you  had  to  do  would  be  to  wait  and  time  would  prove  her 
right.  Then  he  would  point  to  instances  where  Mother 
Doyle  had  jumped  clean  across  majors  and  minors  to  con- 
clusions, and  when  the  thing  had  reached  its  terminus, 
worked  itself  straight,  behold  her  theory  was  a  fact. 

"  Just  let  a  woman's  because  alone  and  it'll  do  the  argu- 
ing," was  Mat's  quaint  but  sterling  reason  for  holding  his 
peace. 

When  Mother  Doyle  had  presented  her  case,  so  to  speak, 
Mat  was  employed  on  the  chicken,  and,  not  being  able  to 
close  his  mouth  for  any  length  of  time,  and  giving  no 
Indian-like  grunt  of  assent,  both  Betty  and  her  ma  were, 
for  some  minutes,  in  suspense.  At  last  Mat  tilted  his 
chair  back  and  contentedly  drew  the  napkin  across  his  lips. 
Betty  removed  the  things  to  the  kitchen,  which  was  sep- 
arated from  the  dining  room  by  a  width  of  porch.  This 
was  Mother  Doyle's  chance,  and  while  you  and  I  know  she 
used  the  following  words  diplomatically,  still,  for  my  part, 
I  am  glad  there  are  brothers  and  sisters  whose  love  for  one 
another  is  susceptible  to  this  sort  of  strategy.  Would  you 
mind  their  increasing  as  manifold  as  Abraham's  progeny? 
Even  so,  there  would  be  no  fear  of  them  making  the  earth 
bulge  out  uncomfortably. 

Mother  Doyle  said,  keeping  an  eye  and  an  ear  both  toward 


NECKTIES  AND  PRINCIPLE.  35 

the  kitchen :  "  I  know  Betty  would  like  to  have  the  teacher 
board  with  us;  it  wouldn't  be  nigh  so  lonely  for  her." 

Mat's  eyes  kindled  with  a  kindly  light,  but  he  picked 
his  teeth  and  remained  mute.  The  thought  of  a  strange 
female  in  the  house  caused  him  to  draw  in  faster  than  a 
terrapin.  He  was,  on  occasions,  shy  enough  with  his  own, 
folks,  especially  when  Betty  began  to  tease  him,  and  now 
this  brand  new  idea  for  the  Doyles  of  taking  a  boarder — 
a  lady  boarder — a  young  lady  boarder — a  school  teacher 
fresh  from  the  city,  befeathered  and  beribboned,  if  the  boys 
were  to  be  believed — it  obfuscated  him. 

All  the  words  in  all  the  dictionaries  rose  up  before  him 
and  reeled  and  staggered  in  such  a  drunken  dance  that 
he  could  not  put  any  two  or  more  of  them  together,  so  he 
worked  away  with  his  toothpick  and  thought  about  cyclone 
pits,  and  wells,  and  other  holes  in  the  ground  in  which 
he  could  hide. 

"  Of  course,  we  don't  know  whether  she'd  board  here ; 
she  may  have  already  engaged  board  at  McNeil's,"  remarked 
Mother  Doyle. 

That  was  some  hope,  indeed,  as  he  saw  its  likelihood, 
quite  cheering.  He  hated  to  have  Betty  disappointed,  and 
wouldn't  have  brooked  the  thought  on  any  other  question; 
he  mentally  vowed  he  would  sell  his  pigs  and  buy  her  a 
beautiful  dress  for  the  loss  of  the  teacher,  but,  poor  Mat, 
he  could  not  help  hoping  that  the  school  marm  had  engaged 
her  domicile.  One  thing  unquestioned — if  the  McNeils 
wanted  her,  he  knew  it  would  take  a  mighty  early  bird  to 
precede  them — one  of  those  birds  that  don't  go  to  bed  of 
nights.  But  Mother  Doyle  jarred  his  hopes  completely 
awry  by  adding:  "I'll  know  to-morrow  morning  whether 
the  McNeils  have  her,  and  if  they  haven't,  I'll  write  her. 
In  fact,  I'll  just  write  to-night,  and  see  Mrs.  McNeil 


36  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

soon,  and  if  the  teacher  ain't  promised  them,  I'll  be  in  time 
to  send  the  letter  off  on  the  morning  train.  Mat,  get  out 
the  paper  and  things  and  I'll  just  write — or  you  do  it  for 
me,  you're  such  a  better  hand  than  me  at  writing." 

It  had  passed  the  discussive  stage  now;  had  arrived  at 
the  point  of  "do,"  and  Mat  arose  and  brought  out  the 
writing  tools. 

He  would  have  had  little  or  nothing  to  say  at  most,  but 
since  it  had  gone  beyond  the  need  of  saying  anything,  he 
obeyed  cheerfully,  as  he  had  always  done  from  babyhood. 

As  he  pushed  the  tablecloth  partly  aside  and  drew  a 
chair  he  felt  as  though  he  was  about  to  write  his  execution. 

"I'm  ready,  mother." 

"Well,  lessee  now — put  her  name  down  and  then  I'll 
have  it  begun." 

"  Here  it  is :  Miss  Laura  Hennon — I  guess  she  spells 
it  that  way." 

"  111  get  her  address  from  Hicks.  She  made  her  bid 
through  him,  so  I  s'pose  he  knows  it,  and  then  she'll  get 
it,  whether  it's  spelt  right  or  not.  How'd  you  know  her 
first  name.  Mat?" 

"  She  left  some  cards  with  her  name  on  'em,  and  Hicks 
give  Dud  one." 

"All  right.  You've  got  her  name  down,  now,  what 
else?" 

Mat  smiled  as  he  thought,  "  if  mother  wants  me  to  make 
it  up  I'd  say,  'Miss  Laura  Hennon,  please  don't  board  at 
our  house,  yours  truly,' "  but  he  said  aloud. 

"Anything  '11  do,~mother;  just  say  if  she  hasn't  decided 
to  board  anywhere  else,  you  would  be  glad  to  have  her,  and 
tell  her  the  price." 

"  That's  it ;  put  it  down  that  way,  and  when  you  come 
to  the  price  say  twelve  dollars  and  a  half." 


NECKTIES  AND  PRINCIPLE.  37 

"For  the  whole  thing?" 

"Yes,  but  that  don't  include  washing." 

Mat  pegged  away  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  read: 

" '  Miss  Laura  Hennon :  If  you  have  not  made  other 
arrangements,  I  would  be  pleased  to  offer  you  board  and 
lodging  here  at  twelve  dollars  and  a  half  per  month.' 
How's  that?" 

"  That'll  do  splendid." 

"I'll  put  a  stamp  inside  and  leave  the  envelope  blank; 
you  can  address  it  in  the  morning  and  put  a  stamp  on,  if 
the  McNeils  haven't  secured  her."  He  put  it  interroga- 
tively, and  Mother  Doyle  answered: 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  try  to  take  her  away  from  them,  but 
I  certainly  hope  she  ain't  gone  there  yet." 

Mat  was  too  busy  folding  the  letter  to  express  any  hope, 
though  I  doubt  not  he,  too,  had  hopes  on  the  subject.  Betty 
had  entered  meanwhile,  and  stood  watching  her  brother, 
and,  from  the  twinkle  of  her  eye,  she  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

"  Say,  Mat,"  she  exclaimed,  after  the  reading,  "  you 
ought  to  have  told  her  there  was  a  nice,  handsome  feller 
here  and  then  she'd  come." 

"  Huh !"  and  Mat  shuddered. 

"  Well,  ain't  you  handsome  ?"  she  asked,  coming  aronnd 
the  table  and  hugging  him. 

"I  don't  know,  Betsy;  there  ain't  any  looking-glass  in 
my  room,  and  you're  always  usin'  yours." 

"  Oh,  you  story !"  she  cried,  giving  him  a  pat. 

"Ain't  it  so,  mother?'  he  asked,  appealing  to  Mother 
Doyle. 

"Well,  Matthew,  I  hear  some  mighty  heavy  footsteps 
in  there  sometimes." 

Betty  clapped  her  hands  as  this  point  was  scored,  and 


38  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

laughed  and  rumpled  his  hair  dreadfully,  but  Mat  pro- 
tested : 

"Oh,  now,  mother!  only  on  Sundays,  and  then  just  to 
fix  my  necktie." 

"I'll  bet  he'll  be  wearin'  'em  every  day  if  the  teacher 
comes,"  said  Betty  at  the  mention  of  ties. 

"Huh!  No  I  won't;  it'd  take  more'n  a  school  teacher 
to  make  me  break  a  principle."  (And  Mat  was  one  of  those 
men  with  whom  principle  is  principle,  whether  it  concerns 
neckties  or  salvation). 


/ 


CHAPTER  III. 
"  M'NEIL  "  AND  "  DEAR/' 

Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  down  in  his  store  after  breakfast 
dusting  off  the  show  cases,  rearranging  things,  and  fussing 
around  generally.  There  was  nothing  about  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil's  exterior  to  excite  wonder,  or,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  a  second  glance  in  a  crowd.  He  was,  perhaps,  five 
foot  eight,  or  nine,  at  most ;  somewhat  stout ;  or,  more 
precisely,  flabby,  there  being  beneath  his  eyelids,  especially, 
a  puffed-out,  vein-swollen  apperance  that  denoted  divers 
trips  to  the  bottle.  His  moustache  was  a  common  enough 
looking  article  of  its  kind — a  gray-brindle,  unkempt  daub, 
with  stringy  ends  that  flickered  between  drooping  and 
dropping,  as  though  having  ceased  the  struggle  to  main- 
tain a  cavalry  twirl.  His  hair  was  similar  to  that  of  a 
great  many  other  old  gentlemen  who  have  passed  through 
one  war  and  considerably  more  than  one  bar-room  to  sixty- 
odd  years — being  very  sparse  around  the  outposts  and  quite 
absent  on  top. 

His  eyes,  like  his  hair,  followed  the  color  of  his  mous- 
tache, for  the  sake  of  harmony,  I  suppose;  but  while  the 
two  latter  seemed  to  be  running  to  bare  ground,  the  former 
took  to  water.  His  eyelashes — were  not  there  to  describe, 
and  possibly  that  is  why  the  orbs  they  once  protected  wept 
in  unceasing  driblets  because  they  came  not  back. 

His  pose,  or  carriage,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it, 
was  a  trifle  more  shuffling  than  erect,  and  his  head  was 

[39] 


4O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

always  tilted  to  the  east  by  southeast.  That  may  have  been 
an  adoption  for  facility,  enabling  him  to  look  up  at  a  tall 
customer  or  down  at  a  small  one  with  a  simple  shift  of 
glance,  or  it  may  have  been — and  I  am  inclined  to  think 
it  was — on  account  of  sentiment.  One  of  those  fellows 
who  is  forever  writing  deep  things  on  shallow  subjects  says 
that  a  hat  worn  on  the  side  is  a  sign  of  sentiment:  much 
more,  then,  would  the  wearing  of  the  head  that  way  be  a 
proof,  and,  besides,  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  intensely  senti- 
mental, as  he  frequently  averred,  over  the  scales. 

His  hands  appeared  to  have  foresworn  water,  whether  to 
be  in  amity  with  his  appetite,  or  because  they  thought  his 
eyes  dabbled  enough  in  that  limpid  stock  to  do  for  the  rest 
of  him,  I  can't  tell,  but  am  open  to  conviction  on  the  latter 
theory.  His  dress — we  will  not  stop  there,  for  it  isn't  the 
clothes  that  make  the  man,  and  I  never  agreed  with  Disraeli 
that  a  slovenly  dressed  person  is  a  coward,  in  spite  of 
himself.  I  believe  those  fellows  who  write  and  talk  about 
them  instead  of  going  and  telling  them  so,  are  the  cowards. 
Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  no  less  of  a  Beau  Brummel  than 
you,  perhaps,  and  no  more  of  a  slouch  than  I,  albeit  his 
shirt  front  was  a  standing  advertisement  for  the  brand  of 
tobacco  he  chewed.  In  that  feature,  however,  his  mous- 
tache was  the  star  display  board,  for  you  could  always  tell 
by  it  what  he  had  last  eaten,  if  you  came  upon  him  between 
meals,  before  he  had  time  to  apply  another  layer. 

The  queerest  thing  connected  with  him  was  that  every- 
body in  Pike — not  only  the  village  of  Pike,  but  the  county — 
called  him  Uncle  Aiec  McNeil.  It  wasn't  Uncle  Alec,  or 
Uncle  McNeil ;  it  was  invariably  the  whole  thing,  whether 
to  strangers,  friends  or  himself.  Though  he  was  like  a 
multitude  of  old  codgers  in  his  personal  appearance,  and 
though  his  traits  were  scattered  singly,  and  doubly,  and 


"  M'NEIL  "   AND   "  DEAR."  41 

trebly  throughout  the  family  of  Adam,  yet  no  individual 
scion  of  that  house  possessed  as  many  or  was  such  a 
master  of  them  as  he ;  consequently  there  was,  and  properly 
could  be,  only  one  Uncle  Alec  McNeil.  For  McNeils  the 
world  may  never  want ;  for  Alec's  drought  nor  overflow  can 
endanger  them ;  and  for  uncles,  go  down  by  the  seaside  and 
count  the  sands ;  but  combine  the  three  into  one  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil,  and  Pike,  seat  of  the  County  of  Pike,  jurisdiction 
of  Judge  Lynch,  was,  during  the  tale  I  tell,  the  only  spot 
beneath  the  stars  whereat  he  resided,  be  now  his  habitation 
where  it  pleases. 

Another  characteristic  was  his  voice:  I  mean  his  con- 
versing voice ;  for  he  was  no  song  bird.  In  pitch  it  was,  say, 
a  scale  higher  than  tenor ;  in  modulation,  a  gentle,  sighing 
cadence,  suggestive  of  a  dying  dove  calling  farewell  to  its 
mate.  The  forte,  when  he  was  in  gin  and  "ginger,"  was 
much  stronger  than  usual,  as  though  a  dozen  or  more  doves 
were  about  to  discard  pin  feathers  for  pinions.  But  strong 
or  soft,  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  never  talked,  spoke,  or  con- 
versed— he  sighed,  wheedled,  or  moaned,  as  though  he 
existed  not  because  life  was  worth  a  penny  to  him,  but  for 
the  pecuniary  advancement  of  his  customers.  And  I  expect 
that  was  really  why  he  continued  to  live ;  at  least,  he  said 
so,  in  substance,  hundreds  of  times,  and  whether  or  not  he 
was  a  creditable  witness,  I  will  return  to  the  channel  of 
my  story,  and  leave  yon  to  judsre. 

"  Good  morning.  Mrs.  Doyle,"  he  sighed,  as  the  widow 
entered. 

"Howdy,  Uncle  Alec  McNeil— all  well?" 

"  Tollable,  to-day ;  though  I  was  down  with  a  chill  yes- 
terday." 

"That's  too  bad;  very  hard  one?" 

"  Oh !  worst  in  the  world,  mum — one  of  those  shakers ; 


42  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

I  declare,  they  come  on  me — um — yes,  mum,  was  there 
something  I  can  do  for  you  this  morning?" 

"  Thought  I'd  bring  a  little  butter  down ;  what's  butter 
worth  now?" 

"  A  bit." 

"  A  bit  P 

"  Why,  Lord,  mum,  this  warm  weather  holds  on  so,  butter 
just  melts  on  my  hands — dead  loss ;  ah,  hey,  dead  loss ;  yes, 
mum;  but  then  I  take  it  for  accommodation  to  my  cus- 
tomers. There's  no  call  here  for  it  at  all,  and  I  can't  get 
— well,  the  market  in  town  is  just  overrun — how  much 
have  you?" 

"  I  brought  four  pounds,  but  I'll  take  it  back ;  a  bit's 
so  little " 

Uncle  Alec  McNeil  looked  furtively  toward  the  door 
and  then  said,  in  a  breath: 

"  Well,  mum,  I'll  make  it  fifteen ;  but  only  to  you ;  lemme 
tell  you  what's  a  fact :  I've  got  butter  back  there  that  won't 
bring  a  dime  to  the  pound;  why,  I  just  tell  you;  the  market 
in  town  is,  is — yes,  mum ;  now  what  did  you  want  ?"  He 
removed  the  butter  to  his  shelf  and  Mother  Doyle  looked  at 
a  slip  of  paper  and  said:  "Some  sugar — how  do  you 
sell  it?" 

"Six  and  a  half." 

"  My !  Is  it  like  the  last  I  got  from  you !" 

"  No,  mum,  this  is  a  much  finer  grade — cost  me  five 
cents  at  New  Orleans;  they  make  it  down  there  from  the 
finest — yes,  mum;  how  much?" 

"  Let  me  see  some  of  it,  first." 

"  Certainly ;  just  come  on  back — here  it  is." 

He  dived  down  in  a  barrel  and  brought  up  a  scoopful, 
which  Mother  Doyle  inspected. 

"This  sugar's  got  trash  in  it  like  the  other." 


"  M'NEIL  "  AND  "  DEAR."  43 

"'  Why,  mum,  yon  see  I've  purty  nigh  run  out  o'  this, 
and  when  it  gets  down  to  the  bottom,  continually  knockin' 
ag'inst  the  barrel  and  all  that,  you  see,  a  little  of  the  lint 
off  the  wood  and  dust,  too,  flyin'  around,  gets  in :  now  that 
other  sugar  was  trashy  all  the  way  through — cheaper  grade, 
you  know — but  this  sugar's  fine  sugar,  yes,  mum;  there's 
just  about  ten  pounds  left,  and  you  can  have  it  all  at  six 
cents;  the  last  of  the  barrel,  and  I  won't  hurt  nobody  but 
myself  knockin'  off  the  half-cent;  cost  me  five  and  three- 
quarters  laid  down,  yes,  mum;  you  just  take  it  at  six 
an' " 

"  No ;  I  only  want  two  bits'  worth." 

He  brought  a  paper  sack,  and  adjusting  a  pair  of 
scales  nearby,  weighed  out  the  amount,  Mother  Doyle 
keeping  at  his  elbow  meanwhile.  When  he  had  placed 
the  package  in  her  basket,  she  finished  trading  out 
the  price  of  the  butter,  and  asked  if  Mrs.  McNeil 
was  home  ;  the  house  stood  some  thirty  yards  from 
the  store.  "  Yes,  mum ;  just  come  back  through  here  and 
go  around  the  yard;  I  expect  you'll  find  her  and  Winnie 
in  the  kitchen;  leave  your  things  here  and  I'll  put  them 
behind  the  counter."  Mother  Doyle  hesitated  slightly,  and 
then  left  the  basket  and  went  through  the  back  door,  mur- 
muring as  she  crossed  the  yard :  "  He  trades  close,  but  I 
don't  believe  he  steals."  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  passed  slant- 
ingly by  the  open  door  and  saw  her  enter  the  house.  Then 
he  brought  the  scoop  from  the  sugar  barrel  and  returned 
behind  the  counter,  and  before  Mother  Doyle  had  said  much 
more  than  "Howdy"  to  his  wife  and  daughter,  there  were 
several  ounces  of  sugar  missing  from  her  basket,  which  she 
would,  in  time,  charge  to  the  mice — for  she  was  a  first-rate 
guesser  at  about  how  long  two  bits'  of  sugar  ought  to  last. 

Uncle  Alec  McNeil  next  turned  his  attention  to  the 


44  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

recently  bought  butter,  and,  taking  a  butcher  knife,  which 
he  wiped  on  his  sleeve,  he  cut  from  the  bottom  of  each 
pound  a  slice  of  a  dime's  thickness,  and  laid  them  away 
behind  the  counter.  His  maneuvres  were  amazingly  quick 
for  an  old  fellow,  showing  the  despatch  that  is  only  acquired 
by  practise,  and  I  have  this  to  say:  he  was  decidedly  too 
near  the  time  when  the  great  invoice  would  be  taken  of  his 
comings  and  shortcomings  to  be  up  to  any  such  tricks. 
Meantime,  Mother  Doyle  was  chatting  with  the  remaining 
members  of  the  McNeil  household  and  was  slowly  working 
the  conversation  around  to  school  talk.  With  Winnie  to 
deal,  it  would  have  been  an  easy  enough  matter,  for  Winnie 
was  yet  a  school  girl,  and  Mother  Doyle  could  have  put 
some  first  century  (B.  C.)  question  to  her  as  to  how  she 
relished  returning  to  her  desk;  but  with  Mrs.  McNeil  the 
task  was  not  only  slow,  but  herculean.  On  a  simple  salu- 
tation of  "Howdy,"  Mrs.  McNeil  could  talk  for  hours ;  not 
quarters,  nor  half-hours,  but  full,  sixty-minute  hours. 
She  could  work  on  it  and  enlarge  it,  as  though  she  really 
thought  people  used  that  form  of  greeting  to  find  out  her 
health  status,  and  as  she  always  had,  or  expected  to  have, 
every  disease  "except  housemaid's  knee" — as  Jerome  says — 
I  could  have  used  days  with  more  exactitude  than  hours. 
Mrs.  McNeil  was  a  large  woman,  with  a  lung  capacity  for 
three  dozen  drummers,  and  when  she  opened  up  on  a  subject 
her  listeners — listened.  Sleep  was  impossible  for  the  noise 
she  felt  bound  to  employ,  and,  besides,  one  could  always 
keep  awake  with  the  expectation  of  amusement,  for  what- 
ever her  theme,  as  she  entered  full  upon  it,  she  waxed  wroth, 
though  it  would  have  led  ordinary  minds  into  realms  of 
peace  and  quiet.  Nor  did  the  subject  necessarily  need  be 
of  moment.  She  could  put  anything,  or  merely  nothnig, 
between  her  teeth  and  draw  talk  untold  therefrom,  and, 


"M'NEIL"  AND  "DEAR."  45 

hence,  I  employed  the  terms  "ordinary  minds"  just  now 
because  it  requires  attributes  bordering  on  the  super- 
natural to  adduce  something  from  nothing. 

"  Yes,"  began  Mrs.  McNeil,  in  reply  to  Mother  Doyle's 
observation  on  the  dry  spell :  "  I  never  saw  the  like,  and 
so  many  people  taken  down  on  account  of  it.  McNeil  keeps 
worried  to  death  about  me,  and  tells  me  not  to  overheat 
myself ;  but  shucks !  there's  work  got  to  be  done,  and  that 
you  well  know,  Mrs.  Doyle,  and  what  else  can  us  house- 
keepers do  but  drudge,  and  drudge,  and  drudge.  McNeil 
wants  me  to  hire  help,  but  one's  work  ain't  half  done  unless 
you  see  to  it  yourself ;  and  if  I  have  to  stand  around  over- 
seein'  a  passel  of  lazy  servants,  why,  sakes  alive !  I  might 
just  as  well  be  a-workin'.  McNeil  and  I  almost  quarrel 
about  it;  he's  so  anxious  about  my  health — you  know  I 
never  have  been  what  you  might  call  well  since  I  had  the 
grip — and  McNeil  would  just  spend  his  last  dollar  hirin* 
servants  to  keep  me  idle,  but  shucks !  I  believe  idleness 
breeds  sickness,  anyhow,  and  then  I  don't  want  no  niggers 
about  me  in  the  kitchen,  nohow;  to  be  forever  watchin' 
em's  worse  than  hard  work.  I  know  'em;  oh!  I  tell  you, 
Mrs.  Doyle,  I  know  'em.  McNeil's  so  trustin'  he  believes 
everybody's  honest  'cause  he  is ;  but  I  tell  you,  when  we  see 
things  we  see  things,  and  pa  owned  forty  of  'em  before 
the  war,  and  I  reckon  I  ought  to  know  'em.  No  sirree ;  as 
I  told  McNeil,  ses  I,  McNeil,  ses  I,  just  leave  me  alone; 
I'll  'tend  to  the  house,  and  the  store,  too,  when  you're  in 
town;  and  though  I  know  I  can't  hold  out  forever  at  it, 
I'm  a-goin'  to  keep  on;  they  just  can't  down  me,  and  the 
hotter  it  gets  the  harder  I'll  work — and  then  when  Winnie 
starts  in  agin  to  school  I'll  have  to  take  up  her  little  odds 
and  ends  of  jobs — Winnie,  have  you  made  up  the  beds 
and  swept  out  ?" 


46  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"  Yes'm." 

"  Well,  put  some  more  wood  in  the  stove,  and  wash  the 
dishes,  and  pick  some  greens — yes'm,  as  I  was  a-sayin',  Mrs. 
Doyle,  I  made  up  my  mind  Winnie  sha'n't  lose  a  day's 
schoolin'  on  my  account;  she'll  have  the  best  education 
money  can  buy — there's  my  own  case:  see  what  education 
done  for  me:  before  McNeil  married  me  I  was  dependent 
on  nobody  but  our  dear  Lord,  and  sometimes  I  think 
'twould  a-been  better  and  more  nobler,  and  more  Christian- 
like  if  I'd  a-kept  on  teaching  school  and  learning  the  young 
ones  how  to  get  along,  but,  then,  Mrs.  Doyle,  'love's 
stronger  than  duty',  as  the  poet  says,  and  now  we've  got  our 
own  daughter  to  see  to,  and  if  I'd  leave  it  to  McNeil,  he's 
just  that  liberal  he'd  a-sent  her  off  to  college  long  ago,  but, 
ses  I,  McNeil,  ses  I,  let  her  go  through  her  home  school 
first ;  let  her  get  her  rudiments,  and  then  we'll  send  her  on 
up  higher — though,  as  to  that,  Mrs.  Doyle,  Winnie  ain't 
very  far  behind  the  Professor,  and  as  for  being  able  to 
teach  the  little  class,  why  from  what  I  hear,  they've  took 
the  pains  to  dig  around  in  town  and  get  some  girl  who  ain't 
a  bit  bigger'n  Winnie,  and  I  doubt  if  she's  much  older, 
and "" 

"  I  heard  the  directors  got  a  new  teacher,"  broke  in 
Mother  Doyle  by  sheer  force.  She  knew  if  Mrs.  McNeil 
held  the  floor  much  longer  the  morning  train  would  be 
gone.  She  continued,  "  Have  you  seen  her  ?" 

"  She  took  dinner  here  the  day  she  put  in  her  bid ;  she 
was  such  a  frail-lookin'  trick,  I  never  once  thought  they'd 
pick  her,  so  I  had  kttle  to  say,  though " 

"  I  guess  she'll  be  down  to  see  about  her  board — the 
school  opens  soon,  don't  it,  Winnie?" 

"  Yes'm,  on  the  seventh." 

"And  I  don't  know  where  she'll  board,  either,  Mrs. 


"M'NEIL"  AND  "DEAR."  47 

Doyle.  If  she  was  a  man  she  could  board  with  the  saw-mill 
folks ;  there  was  old  Mrs.  Dodd,  who  used  to  take  boarders 
now  and  then,  but  she's  gone,  and " 

"  Well,  you  have  the  name  for  keepin'  the  best  boardin'- 
house  here,  Mrs.  McNeil." 

"  Me  ?  Oh,  law,  Mrs.  Doyle !  I  really  am  ashamed  of  the 
table  I  set  to  my  own  family ;  it  takes  people  who  are  used 
to  boardin'  to  run  anything  like  a  boardin'  house,  and,  you 
know,  we've  had  very  little  experience  in  it;  we  don't  have 
to  take  'em  in,  and,  consequently,  when  we  let  somebody 
beg  us  into  boardin'  'em,  I'm  on  pins  and  needles  for  fear 
we  ain't  makin'  it  home-like  enough.  McNeil  tells  me,  ses 
he,  'Dear,  I  wouldn't  take  a  single  boarder;  you  don't  have 
to,  and  you  ain't  used  to  it,  and  your  health  won't  stand 
it — I'll  just  give  you  for  pin  money  what  you'd  get  from 
boardin'  three  or  four,  and  be  done  with  it.'  Well,  that's 
McNeil's  way- — hand  to  his  pocket,  ready  to  give  and  say 
no  more  about  it;  but  it  ain't  mine,  and  besides,  it's  the 
company  I  want.  If  I  let  anybody  board  with  me  they 
must  be  able  to  be  some  company,  and,  law  me !  that  little 
speck  they've  done  engaged  to  teach  here  didn't  look  to 
me  like  she'd  be  company  for  a  mute — not  that  she  didn't 
talk,  for  she  chattered  away  all  through  her  meal,  but,  land 
sakes!  I  want  people  to  talk  some  sense  around  me  and 
not  go  glib,  glib  about  nothing — he !  he  !  I  don't  know  where 
she'll  board;  but,  of  course,  I  don't  want  to  say  a  solitary 
word  against  her,  Mrs.  Doyle ;  that  might  keep  others  from 
boardin'  her.  I  ain't  no  dog  in  the  manger,  and  if  I  can't 
gay  something  good  about  anybody  I  don't  say  a  word — 
for  I'm  a  sinner  like  the  rest,  and  as  I  tell  our  dear  Lord, 
if  he  only  had  me  to  look  after,  he'd  have  as  much  on  his 
hands  as  he  could  'tend  to — not  goin'  a-ready;  sakes, 
woman,  you  run  in  and  out  like  a  mouse." 


48  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"  I  don't  want  to  keep  you  from  your  work,  and  I  know 
I'm  keepin'  myself  from  mine.  Come  when  you  get  a 
resting  chance,  and  you,  too,  Winnie;  you  know  where  to 
find  OUT  latch-string." 

Mrs.  McNeil  accompanied  Mother  Doyle  to  the  store, 
talking  every  step  of  the  way,  and  saw  her  visitor  cour- 
teously out,  and  the  last  Mother  Doyle  heard  was  her  tongue 
going  like  a  piston-rod  until  the  closing  of  the  front  door 
shut  off  her  voice. 

Mrs.  McNeil  it  was  who  closed  the  front  door,  though  it 
was  hot  enough  to  have  left  it  open,  and  even  removed  the 
roof  and  weather  hoarding.  She  returned  to  the  rear  of 
the  store,  where  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  leaning  somewhat 
dejectedly  against  the  end  of  the  counter. 

"  You'd  better  go  up  and  go  to  bed,  McNeil,"  she  said, 
in  a  more  masculine  tone  than  she  used  to  customers. 

"  I  vow,  /  might  as  well  go  to  town  to  buy,  so  long  as 
you're  determined  to  sell  goods  in  this  place,  for  it  looks 
like  you  can't  go  near  there  without  getting  drunk  and 
comin'  home  and  droopin'  about  like  a  sick  cat." 

"Ah,  hey,  well,  dear,  I'm  as  anxious  to  leave  here  as 
you " 

"  Shucks !  So  you  say,  but  if  you  really  meant  it,  you're 
too  good  a  liar  not  to  be  able  to  sell  out  to  some  greeny." 

"  Heh !"  grunted  her  husband,  with  a  mild  chuckle — a 
very  mild  chuckle.  "  I  wish  you  would  mention  somebody 
about " 

"  I  didn't  mean  l^re,  McNeil — you  know  these  paupers 
couldn't  buy  a  settin'  of  snake  eggs.  I  meant  in  town; 
if  you  didn't  put  in  your  spare  time  there  a-drinkin',  you 
might  kech  a  fish." 

"Ah,  hey!"  sighed  Uncle  Alec  McNeil,  and  then  he 
went  back  of  the  counter  and  brought  forth  the  slices  of 


"  M'NEIL  "  AND  "  DEAR."  49 

butter.    Handing  them  over  to  his  wife  as  a  peace  offering 
he  said: 

"  I  mailed  that  letter,  dear." 

"  Whose  butter  is  this  ?"  she  asked,  ignoring  the  remark. 

"  Some  of  the  Doyleses,"  he  answered,  meekly. 

"  That  old  Doyle  busybody  brought  it  down  here  to  make 
us  believe  she  came  to  trade — did  she  spend  any  money?" 

"  No,  dear." 

"  I  thought  not ;  she  came  swishing  in  there  to  the 
kitchen  to  pump  me  about  the  new  teacher;  did  she  say 
anything  to  you?" 

"No,  dear — just  said  she  wanted  to  see  you." 

"  Well,  that's  what  she  came  for,  and  she's  welcome  to 
all  the  news  she  got  out  of  me." 

"  She's  only  curious,  I  reckon,  dear." 

"  Curious   the   de'il — she's    on   suffrance,   like   all   the 
balance  around  here,  and  a  boarder'd  be  a  God-send.    You 
say  you  mailed  the  letter." 
"Yes— it's  all  right." 

"  If  it's  delivered  soon  as  it  gets  there,  she'll  get  it  this 
morning,  but  old  man  Dodd's  so  slow,  it's  a  wonder  if  he 
gets  it  stamped  to-day." 

"  Heh !"  laughed  Uncle  Alec  McNeil.  He  made  a  policy 
of  always  laughing  at  "  dear's  "  humor. 

"I  guess  we'll  get  a  new  postmaster,  dear,  when  old  man 
Dodd's  money  comes." 

"  Shucks !     He  ain't  still  harpin'  on  that  money  ?" 

"Well,  they  say  that  Andy  says,  as  soon  as  his  pa  gets 
it,  he's  goin'  to  hand  it  over  to  him,  and  he's  goin'  in 
business  and  support " 

"  In  business,  ha !  That  drunken  sot'll  fall  in  Hick's 
furnace  and  kill  himself  sooner  or  later.  His  pa  hand  it 


50  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

over  to  him !    Shucks !    Precious  little  money  his  pa'll  ever 
get  to  hand  over  to  him/' 

"  I  don't  know,  dear " 

"  I  know  you  don't ;  I  know  you  don't.  You  don't  know 
how  cows  gets  calves,  McNeil.  The  idea  of  your  putt  in' 
any  stock  in  that  jack-o'-lantern  chase  of  old  man  Dodd's. 
If  he  fought  in  the  Mexican  War,  why  didn't  he  save  his 
papers  ?  I  have  no  douht  he  was  in  it,  for  he's  old  enough 
to  a-ben  in  the  Eevolution ;  but  Uncle  Sam  ain't  a-goin'  to 
take  a  rebel's  say-so  that  he  was  in  the  Mexican  War; 
if  he'd  been  a  Yankee  he  would'nt  a-needed  any  papers  to 
prove  nothing,  but  them  kind  of  pensions  ain't  given  to 
folks  down  here — and  if  you  put  any  faith  in  old  man 
Dodd's  talk  about  it,  you're  a  bigger  fool  than  I  thought." 

"  Mamma !"  called  Winnie,  "  come  in  here  and  help 
me  cut  this  meat." 

Her  mother  replied  in  a  loud,  irritated  voice: 

"  In  a  minute,"  and  then  remarked  to  her  husband  that 
it  seemed  like  that  child  couldn't  get  along  two  minutes 
without  her,  and  that  if  she  was  as  shiftless  with  her  books 
as  she  was  at  cooking,  they  might  as  well  take  her  away 
from  school. 

"  The  school  won't  do  her  much  good,  nohow,  dear,"  put 
in  Uncle  Alec  McNeil.  "  I  can  barely  write  my  name,  and 
I  couldn't  read  it  if  I  was  a-goin'  to  be  hung;  but  I  ain't 
done  so  poorly — especially  in  my  courtin'." 

"  Shucks,  McNeil !  don't  be  simple,'  rejoined  "  dear  " ; 
but  he  could  see  the  Barney  had  dulled  the  edge  of  her 
peevishness  for  the  time  being,  and  on  the  strength  of  it  he 
filled  his  pipe  and  shuffled  out  to  the  porch.  Arriving  at 
the  door,  he  opened  it  and  called  back: 

"  I  hear  her  now,  whis'ling  for  the  crossing." 

Mrs.  McNeil  hastened  forward,  and  together  they  listened 


"M'NEIL"  AND  "DEAR."  51 

to  the  oncoming  train.  The  rumbling  grew  louder  and 
louder,  and  presently  the  hoarse  shriek  of  the  whistle 
sounded,  and  as  it  died  away,  Mother  Doyle's  portly  form 
came  hurrying  from  the  direction  of  Hick's  mill  toward 
the  depot. 

"  Ain't  she  gone  home,  yet  ?"  declared  Mrs.  McNeil. 

"  She  can't  be  goin'  to  town  in  her  mother  hubbard," 

"  She's  got  a  letter  or  something  in  her  hand,"  spoke 
Uncle  Alec  McNeil,  shading  his  eyes  and  screwing  up  his 
face. 

"  Hum,  a  letter !  Um,  hum !  Just  as  I  told  you,  McNeil ; 
she  thought  she  was  a-foolin'  somebody,  eh?  See,  she's 
handin'  it  in  on  the  mail  car.  Oh!  I  told  you  so — she 
wasn't  down  her  for  a  howdy/' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ANDY  DODD. 

Mother  Doyle  had  taken  an  early  start  with  her  important 
letter,  knowing  that  Mrs.  McNeil's  tongue  was  a  long  lane 
to  traverse,  and  after  she  had  gone,  Betty  washed  the 
breakfast  things  and  then  started  in  to  give  the  kitchen  a 
general  cleaning.  Every  Saturday  she  set  aside  the  fore- 
noon for  that  purpose,  giving  the  stove  a  polish,  scrubbing 
the  floor,  and  emptying  the  safe  of  leavings,  and  1*11 
venture  to  say,  there  wasn't  a  housewife  about  the  country 
who  kept  a  more  parlor-like  kitchen  than  did  Betty;  or, 
at  any  rate,  kept  it  more  cheerfully.  There  are  whole 
regiments  of  tidy  housekeepers.  I've  seen  battalions  of 
them  myself,  but,  honestly,  there  are  very  few  in  my  circle 
but  who  go  at  it  in  a  most  uncomfortable  way.  They  grab 
a  skillet,  souse  it  in  the  water,  dig  at  it  with  fierce  energy, 
as  though  the  skillet  was  persona  non  grata  in  that 
kitchen ;  then,  having  thumped  it  clean,  they  hurry  to  the 
stove,  throw  it  against  the  fender  to  dry,  pretty  much  as  if 
they  were  pitching  it  into  torment,  and  then,  after  spitting 
out  a  sharp  "  Ha !"  meaning  "  one  more  burden  off  my 
hands."  they  charge  back^to  the  dishpan  and  dive  in  with 
a  fury  that  makes  me  feel  for  the  cups  and  plates  and 
things  doomed  to  their  grasp. 

Betty  dispensed  with  all  that  nonsense,  and  in  place  of 
a  dig  and  a  jab,  and  a  grunt  and  a  fling,  she  hummed  all 
sorts  of  little  old  timey  tunes,  stopping  long  enough,  now 

[52] 


ANDY   DODD.  53 

and  then,  to  throw  out  some  scraps  and  watch  the  chickens 
scramble.  It  was  during  one  of  those  intermissions  that 
she  spied  Andy  Dodd  coming  around  the  walk  which 
skirted  the  side  of  the  house  and  ended  at  the  back  gate — 
the  same  walk  that  Mat  took  every  evening  when  he  went 
to  feed  the  squealers. 

Her  eyes  lit  up  with  pleasure  as  she  stepped  out  on  the 
kitchen  porch  to  greet  him;  and,  for  my  part,  I  don't  see 
where  her  eyes  could  be  blamed.  Andy  Dodd  was,  take 
him  out  and  out,  a  handsome  boy.  Tall — yes;  I  expect  he 
measured  close  on  to  six  feet.  Slender ;  in  fact,  you  might 
almost  say  raw-boned,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  graceful 
hang  of  his  clothes. 

His  cheek  bones  stood  out  just  a  mite  too  far;  but  that 
was  offset  by  his  dark  brown  eyes- — bold,  bad  eyes,  some  dear 
old  ladies  might  say;  but,  all  the  same,  the  kind  of  eyes 
that  used  to  play  havoc  with  those  dear  old  ladies  long 
ago. 

His  hair  was  dark, — not  what  you  would  call  coal  black, 
but  close  to  it, — and  his  complexion  was  decidedly  tanned. 
You  could  see  that  it  was  a  perfectly  healthy  and  normal 
color,  too,  for  he  wore  his  collar  open  and  his  sleeves 
rolled  up.  That  was  either  a  weakness  or  habit  with  Andy 
— possibly  both.  He  knew  he  looked  swagger  with  his 
shirt  thrown  open  at  the  neck,  and  sleeves  tucked  up  to  his 
elbows,  and  held  there  by  a  pair  of  red  silk  supporters; 
furthermore,  he  knew  the  Pike  girls  thought  he  looked 
so  picturesque.  On  the  other  hand,  he  ran  the  engine 
at  Setton  Hicks'  sawmill — fired,  as  the  boys  termed  it — and 
that  sort  of  work  necessitated  a  decollete  attire.  So  it 
may  have  been  either  or  both;  when  you  come  to  know 
him  better  you  may  decide  that  point. 

He  was  a  great  tobacco  chewer,  though  it  is  scarcely 


54  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

necessary  to  put  the  word  tobacco  in  there,  as  everybody 
around  Pike  chewed,  except  Mat  Doyle  and  Setton  Hicks 
— barring  the  women  folks,  of  course,  who  took  it  out  in 
snuff.  However,  you  mustn't  become  set  against  Andy  for 
chewing.  I'll  admit  it's  a  filthy  vice,  but  our  young  friend 
Dodd  didn't  chew  like  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry;  nor,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  like  his  pa.  Old  Man  Dodd  had  been 
chewing  as  far  back  as  the  Mexican  War,  and  should  have 
been  a  very  pattern  for  rising  chewers,  but  the  fact  was, 
the  old  fellow  had  never  learnt  to  spit  beyond  his  chin. 
I've  seen  him  many  a  time  walk  clear  the  length  of  his 
store — he  kept  a  bob-tailed  store  conjointly  with  the  Post 
Office — I've  seen  him  come  from  behind  the  counter  and 
go  all  the  way  out  on  the  porch  to  spit,  and  when  he  came 
back  there  was  most  of  it  on  his  beard. 

Andy  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  chewer;  not  that  his  being 
beardless  was  any  advantage  to  begin  with,  but  it  just 
seemed  like  he  could  chew  cleaner  than  anybody  in  the 
country.  Unless  you  were  to  see  him  cut  off  a  piece  and 
place  it  in  his  mouth,  you  couldn't  swear  before  a  court 
whether  or  not  he  was  chewing.  It  was  the  same  way 
with  everything  else  he  did — easy  and  insinuating  like, 
even  to  walking.  Upon  the  occasion  referred  to  he  came 
on  around  the  walk,  up  the  kitchen  steps,  and  took  Betty's 
hands  in  his  and  it  was  all  done  as  graceful  as  though  he 
had  been  practising  it  regularly,  which,  to  be  sure,  he 
hadn't. 

"Howdy,  hun;  how  are  you  to-day?"  he  asked,  while 
Betty  stooped  down  and  kissed  him,  which  would  have  been 
scandalous  for  anybody  but  you  and  me  to  have  seen — 
old  lady  McNeil,  for  instance!  As  it  was,  "dear"  was 
forever  having  them  at  the  altar,  and,  I  suppose,  could  she 


ANDY   DODD.  55 

have  seen  that  kiss,  baby  carriages  are  the  very  least  she 
would  have  prophesied. 

"Fine  as  can  be/'  answered  Betty. 

"Mill  ain't  running  to-day?" 

"Nope,  broke  the  belting  agin  yesterday  and  Hicks  had 
to  go  to  town  for  a  new  one  this  morning.  The  old 
skunk  did  without  one  'till  the  other  busted  from  end  to 
end;  he  won't  spend  a  nickel  unless  there's  eight  cents 
comin'  in  right  after  it.  Thank  Heaven!  he'll  have  to 
spend  some  more  money  soon,  or  go  to  shovelin'  sawdust 
in  that  worn-out  furnace  himself." 

<fWhy,  you  goin'  to  quit  ?" 

Betty  had  asked  Andy  that  question  time  and  again, 
until  it  grew  to  be  more  habit  than  anything  else.  Andy 
had  settled  it  in  his  mind  a  hundred  times  to  leave  Pike 
and  go  up  to  the  city.  He  mostly  came  to  those  resolves 
after  a  spree,  when  he  felt  blue  and  got  high  notions  in  his 
head  about  money.  Give  him  twenty  dollars,  plenty  of 
native  wine,  a  deck  of  cards,  and  some  loose  fellows  who 
would  play  seven-up  anywhere  from  five  cents  to  a  dollar 
a  corner,  and  next  day  Andy  would  either  be  in  a  state 
of  sickly  sobriety  and  financial  nothingness,  or  still  spree- 
ing  and  the  cards  running  his  way.  If  the  former,  he 
would  come  to  see  Betty  and  talk  it  out;  if  the  latter,  he 
would  tell  his  boon  companions  while  they  were  on  their 
way  up  country  for  more  wine,  that  he  was  goin'  to  quit 

that  d d  sawmill  and  go  to  town,  where  he  could  make 

all  kinds  of  money." 

So  Betty  put  the  quit  query  to  him  because  she  knew 
he  wanted  to  unburden  himself,  and  as  she  did  it,  she 
placed  a  chair  for  him  on  the  gallery,  where  he  could 
watch  her  about  the  kitchen  and  not  muss  up  the  newly 
scrubbed  floor. 


56  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"Yes/"  he  replied,  tilting  backwards  aaid  brushing  some 
dust  off  his  trousers. 

"You  know,  Bet,  I'm  foolin'  away  my  time  at  that 
mill." 

Betty  nodded.  Pike  gossips  and  her  own  eyes  kept  it 
pretty  steadily  before  her  that  he  was  fooling  away  his 
time,  but  not  at  that  mill. 

"Why,"  he  went  on,  "I've  been  a  blockhead  all  along  to 
stay  here  firing  for  Hicks  at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a 
day  when  there  ain't  a  union  man  in  town  who'll  come 
under  two  fifty.  And  you  know  how  Hicks  pays;  a  few 
dollars  now  and  then,  and  expects  you  to  take  the  rest 
out  of  that  deadfall/' 

The  deadfall  referred  to  was  the  sawmill  store,  or  as 
we  say  in  the  army,  the  commissary  of  subsistence.  It  was 
the  place  where  Hicks'  hands  were  furnished  a  dollar  sack 
of  flour  for  a  dollar  nd  twenty-five  cents;  the  same  flour 
that  Uncle  Alex  McNeil  sold  for  cash  at  a  dollar  five,  and 
to  his  mortgagors  at  one  thirty.  If  you  are  quick  at  fig- 
ures you  can  estimate  that  the  deadfall  was,  then,  within 
five  cents  of  being  as  expensive  as  a  mortgage.  I  have 
heard  of  farms  being  buried  under  mortgages,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  if  deadfalls  haven't  entombed  many 
a  good  mill  hand. 

"Hicks  knows  he's  underpayin*  me,"  Andy  continued; 
"every  time  I  strike  him  for  a  raise  he  mouths  about 
dull  times  and  tells  me  I'm  getting  more  than  any  of  the 
other  fellows.  It's  nose  of  my  look-out  what  he  gives 
the  rest:  if  they're  dummies  'nough  to  slave  for  that 
Yankee  at  a  dollar  a  day.  that  don't  signify  I've  got  to  do 
skilled  work  at  scab  prices  all  my  life.  I'll  go  up  to 
town  and  join  the  union,  and  then  we'll  see  whether  or  no 
Hicks  buys  a  new  boiler.  There  ain't  a  fellow  around  here 


ANDY  DODD.  57 

beside  me  can  run  the  thing  without  bustin'  it,  so  it's  a 
choice  of  a  town  man  or  a  new  engine  with  him  when  I 
quit." 

"Have  you  got  a  job  offered  you  up  town?"  asked 
Betty. 

"Xo,  not  as  you  might  say  offered  me,  but  as  soon  as 
I'm  in  the  union  there  will  be  plenty  of  jobs  comin'  right 
along." 

Like  a  great  many  theory  touchers,  Andy  had  well- 
defined  ideas  about  the  iinion,  the  only  trouble  being  a 
wrong  definition.  He  knew  he  bound  himself  to  pay 
initiation  fees,  monthly  dues,  lodge  assessments  and  walk- 
ing delegate  expenses  on  becoming  a  U.  W.,  and  he  was 
also  aware  that  after  he  became  a  U.  "W.  he  couldn't  ply 
his  avocation  for  less  than  union  rates.  But  his  calcula- 
tions failing  to  start  out  on  that  good  old  rabbit-pie 
recipe,  to-wit,  "First  catch  the  rabbit,"  were  somewhat 
problematical. 

"Well,  Andy,  you  know  best,"  Betty  remarked,  rinsing 
the  dishpan,  "but  it  seems  to  me  I'd  stay  at  Hicks'  until 
I  was  sure  of  something  better." 

"Hun,  it's  just  that  much  time  thrown  away,  when  I 
could  be  puttin'  it  in  up  town  pickin'  me  out  a  job. 
Everybody  around  here  gives  it  up  that  I'm  about  as 
good  as  there  is  in  my  line,  so  'twon't  be  a  bit  of  trouble 
to  get  an  opening  up  yonder." 

Betty  still  maintained  a  dubious  air  and  Andy  pursued 
the  argument.  I  say  argument,  though  there  was 
precious  little  of  it  on  Betty's  side.  Her  silence  was  her 
argument  and  that  worried  Andy  more  than  if  she  had 
downright  fussed  with  him.  But  I  have  said  that  was 
her  way;  she  had  no  inclination  to  argue,  "jaw,"  as  she 
termed  it,and  knowing  that  a  shake  of  her  head,  raising 


58  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

of  her  eyebrows  or  pursing  of  her  pretty  lips — especially 
the  pursing — would  draw  Andy  out ;  and  knowing,  as  well, 
that  drawing  out  was  the  very  thing  he  needed,  being  a 
sort  of  a  mental  sedative  on  such  occasions,  she  let  him 
abuse  Hicks,  saw-mill,  Pike,  and  nearly  everything  else, 
contenting  herself  with  the  pantomimic  objections  above 
mentioned. 

"Why,  great  guns !"  pursued  Andy,  warmly,  "when  I 
was  up  to  town  last  month,  Burke  Sims  told  me  it 
wouldn't  be  any  trouble  to  walk  right  in  the  M.  P.  shops 
and  get  a  job,  and,  hun,  why  look  at  it  for  a  minute 
calmly,  (something  Andy  wasn't  doing,  by  the  bye,)  and 
you'll  say  the  same.  Burks  Sims  went  up  from  the  coun- 
try, hadn't  never  done  anything  but  snipe  on  a  section, 
and  where  is  he  now?  Eunnin'  his  engine  three  trips  a 
week  out  and  pullin'  down  his  two  fifty  a  day.  If  Burke 
can  do  it,  why  can't  I?  I  can  do  it,  I  know  I  can  do  it, 
but  whenever  I  even  whisper  it  to  the  old  man,  his  back 
gets  worse  right  off  and,  tlmnder  and  blazes!  I  wouldn't 
go  away  and  have  people  savin'  I  left  the  old  man  an 
invalid  and  all  that.  And  then,  too,  the  old  man's  always 
a-sayin'  *Jes'  wait,  Andy,  jes'  wait;  'twon't  be  long  'fore 
my  pension  goes  through,  and  then  I'll  start  you  in  busi- 
ness/ Great  Heavens !  That  pension's  been  goin' 
through  ever  since  I  can  remember.  I  wish  I  was  like 
the  old  man,  figgerin'  on  something  that  ain't  never  goin* 
to  happen,  and  gettin' as  much  good  out  of  it  as  if  it  did. 
Snakes !  If  I  was  that  way,  I'd  stay  here  and  drudge 
for  that  bow-legged  ape  the  rest  of  my  born  days,  and 
just  imagine  that  some  mornin'  an  engine  would  side 
track  itself  at  the  depot  and  whistle,  'Here,  Andy,  come, 
get  in  the  cab  and  run  me  three  out  a  week  at  two  fifty/ 
and,  accordin'  to  the  old  man's  torn-fool  way  of  thinkin', 


ANDY  DODD.  59 

I'd  be  as  well  off  as  if  I  really  had  a-hustled  out,  like  I 
intend  to  do  purty  shortly,  and  show  these  back-water 
hoboes  what  money  makin'  is." 

Andy  could  accuse  his  pa  of  building  idle  hopes  on  a 
Mexican  War  pension  foundation,  but  he  wouldn't  have 
admitted  that  he  himself  was  a  dealer  in  air  castles.  No, 
no.  He  had  twenty  different  architectural  designs  of 
the  home  he  and  Betty  would  erect,  own,  and  occupy  up  at 
the  city  when  he  was  foreman  at  the  railroad  shops,  or  tha 
foundry,  or  the  mills,  or  some  other  concern  suited  to  his 
capacity.  Those  twenty  plans  were  on  regular  draughts- 
man's paper  and  done  in  colors,  with  red  ink  for  the  brick 
work.  Nothing  air-castleish  about  them !  They  were  as 
sure  to  materialize  as  fate — so  Andy  said — and  not  only 
those,  but  a  headful  of  others. 

Andy  didn't  know  that  Betty  was  the  only  one  in  Pike 
who  had  not  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  doubt  about  the 
solidity  of  those  plans.  He  knew  that  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
and  "Dear"  ridiculed  the  materializing  of  his  pa's  Mexi- 
can War  pension.  He  knew  that  wicked  Bill  Ott  had 
fabricated  numberless  rough  jokes  about  that  pension — 
he  had  laughed  at  them  and  helped  give  them  currency. 
In  short,  he  knew  that  that  pension  was  the  landmark  of 
Pike's  by-words.  He  knew  all  this  because  he  scoffed  at 
the  pension  himself.  His  nature  was  such  that  when  he 
believed  a  thing,  no  amount  of  argument  could  convince 
him  otherwise;  caprice  could,  but  reason  never.  Caprice 
formed  his  opinions  and  naught  else  could  change  them. 
Hence  Ms  plans  were  always  worth  one  hundred  cents  and 
upward  on  the  dollar — until  some  other  plan  sprang  up, 
mushroom-like.  When  that  happened,  which  was  some- 
what more  frequent  than  presidential  elections,  he  would 
hunt  up  Betty  and  tell  her  that  he  had  been  thinking  it 


6O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

over  seriously,  and  really  her  plan  wouldn't  do  at  all,  but 
here  was  one  of  his  which  would:  whereupon,  Betty,  dear 
girl  that  she  was,  wouldn't  say,  "Why,  Andy,  the  other  was 
yours,  too !"  but  would  put  her  arm  over  his  shoulder, 
listen  to  his  new  plan,  and  then  say  it  was  lots  and  lots 
better  than  hers, — that,  in  fact,  she  always  had  felt  kind  o' 
doubtful  about  hers. 

Love,  how  blind !  We  often  see  mendicants  on  the  street 
with  "Pity  the  Blind"  tagged  on  them.  Love  ought  to 
have  one,  too — a  great  big  sign.  Poor  love — precious 
little  pity  it  gets,  and,  harsh  truth,  the  least  of  all  from 
the  loved. 


< 


CHAPTEE  V. 

WICKED  BILL  OTT. 

"WANT  anything  downtown?"  Mat  queried,  poking  his 
head  into  the  kitchen  window  as  he  came  around  the  walk. 

"Law,  son,  you  liked  to  skared  me!"  Mother  Doyle 
exclaimed,  and  Betty  turned  quickly  from  the  dishpan  and 
said: 

"Stop  by  the  postoffice,  Mat;  we're  sure  to  hear  some- 
thing from  Miss  Hennon  to-day." 

"TJm-huh." 

That  was  Mat's  extent  of  conversation  when  Miss  Hen- 
non's  name  bobbed  up,  which  Betty  was  forever  making 
it  do. 

"Well — uh — do  you  want  any  truck — sugar,  or  stuff 
like  that?" 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  we  do,  son ;  how's  the  soda  runnin', 
Bet?" 

"Oh,  we  won't  need  anything,  ma,  yet  awhile :  let's  wait 
and  stock  up  when  Miss  Hen ,"  but  Mat's  head  van- 
ished, and  his  "provoging"  sister,  as  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
would  say,  rushed  to  the  window  and  called: 

"Don't  forget  the  postoffice,  Mat." 

"Um-huh." 

"And  you  can  open  the  letter,  if  it's  there." 

"Um-huh." 

<cBut  don't  run  home  too  fast  to  tell  us  she's  a-cominV 

"  Um — huh!"  And  if  Mat  had  been  at  all,  even  just  the 

[6iJ 


62  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

least  bit,  on  Wicked  Bill  Ott's  order,  he'd  have  terminated 

his  "uin-huhs"  with ,  or ,  or !  or  all 

three.  Instead  of  that,  he  went  on  out  the  front  gate 
and  swung  into  his  regular  loping  stride,  which  Betty 
always  characterized  as  Mat's  slow-hurry. 

There  wasn't  a  housewife  in  Pike  those  days  who  would 
miss  singing  out  "Howdy"  to  Mat  when  he  passed.  Let 
any  frying-size  youngster  in  any  yard  look  up  and  see  our 
friend,  and  he'd  yell: 

"Maw!  Mister  Mat's  comin',"  whereupon  maw  would 
pause  polishing  pans  to  give  Mister  Mat  a  greeting.  The}7 
always  made  Mat  feel  mighty  good,  those  little  howdies, 
and  any  fellow  who  knows  that  the  neighbors  respect  him 
for  that  exotic  integrity,  can  well  be  allowed  an  inch  or 
so  of  pride.  At  any  rate,  Mat's  stride  lengthened  scarce 
perceptibly  as  he  shortened  space  between  his  home  and 
the  depot.  He  was  expecting  a  harvester  on  the  freight. 
Mat  was  one  of  those  unheard-of  male  inhabitants  of 
railroad  villages  who  never  went  near  the  depot  unless 
he  had  business  there.  The  rest  of  pantalooned  Pike 
were  at  the  station  waiting  for  the  southbound  passenger 
when  he  arrived.  He  called  to  the  agent : 

"Howdy,  Deck — when'll  the  freight  be  in?"  giving  the 
boys  a  nod  here  and  a  shake  there. 

"Just  ahead  of  67,  Mat;  she's  due  in  twenty  minutes; 
how's  all?" 

"So,  so.     I'm  lookin'  for  that  cutter  this  mornin'." 

Of  course  the  boys  gft  wanted  to  hear  what  Mat  had 
to  say;  and,  of  course,  the  boys  all  followed  Mat  inside; 
and,  of  course,  they  all  heard  his  remark  about  the  cutter ; 
and,  of  course,  they  had  to  hear  some  more  about  that 
identical  cutter. 


WICKED  BILL  OTT.  63 

"Oh,  it's  one  o'  these  new-fangled  machines,"  Mat 
answered  to  the  general  interrogative. 

"I  ain't  good  at  describin'  'em/  he  went  on,  "but  you  all 
can  see  it  when  it  comes." 

"Comin'  this  mornin',  is  it,  Mat?"  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
asked. 

Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  down  expecting  an  express 
package.  Everybody  always  knew  the  contents  of  the 
express  package  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  looking  for,  but 
he  nevertheless  kept  up  a  happy  fiction  that  it  was  some 
store  goods  he  had  just  run  out  of  and  ordered  in  too  big 
a  hurry  for  the  freight,  (which  was  so,  in  part,  for  when 
he  emptied  one  of  those  express  packages  he  was  generally 
in  a  hurry  for  another). 

"Yeh,  Uncle  Alec  McNeil;  I  b'lieve  it'll  get  in  this 
mornin' — hope  so,  anyhow,  as  I  wouldn't  want  to  lose 
this  much  time  a-waitin'." 

"And  you  say  its  a  new-fangled  cutter,  my  son  ?" 

'Tes,  sir;  one  of  these  things  that  cut  an'  bind  the 
sheaf,  and  pitch  it  out  for  you." 

"Well,  uh,  well,"  slowly  began  the  old  merchant,  wink- 
ing at  the  boys — he  was  considerable  of  a  wit,  so  Pike  said 
— "How  do  you  work  her  ?  Jes  put  her  in  the  field  and  jes 
turn  her  loose,  an'  she — uh — she — uh — starts  a  bilin'?" 

Everybody  guffawed  and  stamped  at  this  brilliant  sally, 
and  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  loudest  of  all.  The  fact  was,  when 
he  laughed  at  his  own  jokes  he  resembled  for  several 
minutes  an  acute  case  of  cramps. 

Mat  waited  until  the  laughing  partially  died  down,  and 
simply  said: 

"If  they  tell  the  truth  about  the  thing,  it's  worth  havin' ; 
but  advertisements  and  truth  ain't,  as  you  might  say, 


64  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

twins.  How  about  'em,  Deck — the  cutters — you  lived  up 
where  they  were  common  ?" 

"Oh,  they're  out  o'  sight,  Mat;  but  it  takes  a  sight  o' 
manipulatin'  to  run  one/ 

"Sort — er,  sort — er,  conflipercated,  hey?"  put  in  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil,  and  the  guffawing  and  stamping  rose  to  par 
again. 

"/  wouldn't  have  one  o'  the  things,"  Bill  Ott  said, 
emphatically,  ripping  a  piece  of  boxing  with  his  knife. 
"  Why,"  he  went  on,  the  crowd  attending  closely,  (he  was 
the  wickedest  man  in  all  Pike,  and  it  paid  to  listen  to 
him),  "why,  look  at  the  Tomassons,  and  that  farm  they 
stole  with  other  folks'  money — they've  got  it  littered  up 

with  such  d truck,  mowers,  'n  reapers,  'n  h knows 

what  all.  They  can't  set  a  hen  on  that  cussed  place  with- 
out startin'  up  a  whole  d lot  o'  machinery;  takes  all 

the  profit  they  make  for  repairs,  let  alone  the  fust  cost; 
talk  about  being  eternally  bothered  with  such  like,  why, 

d my  hog-stealin'  hide,  I'd  rather  be  nibbled  to  death 

by  a  passel  o'  d ducks !" 

The  guffawing  and  stamping  shot  Avay  above  par  at  the 
conclusion  of  Bill's  very  instructive  discourse. 

Uncle  Alec  McNeil's  wit  was  of  a  more  neutral  kind. 
Being  a  public  man  to  the  extent  of  selling  goods  to  all 
without  regard  to  race  or  religion,  he  felt  impelled  to 
eliminate  profanity,  and  thereby  rob  said  wit  of  its  essence, 
its  bouquet,  as  far  as  P^ike  went.  But  Uncle  Alec  McXeil 
was  strictly  business,  Sfcd  doubtless  orthodox.  Far  different 
with  Bill  Ott.  Bill  was  wicked;  he  gloried  in  it,  so  why 
should  I  be  squeamish  about  telling  the  fact.  Bill,  like 
a  good  many  of  us,  had  gotten  Christianity  confused  with 
lots  of  professed  Christians  he  had  seen,  and  the  result 
in  his  case  was  a  colossal  contempt  for  both.  I  shan't 


WICKED   BILL  OTT.  65 

pretend  to  say  Bill  had  been  actually  driven  to  wicked- 
ness by  that,  for  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  had  he  been 
born  in  heaven  he  would  have  acquired  the  title  of  Wicked 
Bill  Ott  as  firmly  as  Pike  had  fastened  it  upon  him.  But 
what  I  do  say,  and  say  earnestly,  that  if  Bill  had  been 
used  to  see  more  doing  and  less  shouting,  he  would  not 
have  had  the  face  to  parade  his  wickedness  so  elabor- 
ately. There's  nothing  gives  vice  more  backbone  than  to 
point  to  a  paragraph  in  a  newspaper  reporting  the  elope- 
ment of  some  preacher  with  another  man's  wife,  or  the 
hypothecating  of  juvenile  foreign  mission  funds  by  some 
Sunday  School  superintendent,  or  some  other  every-day 
occurrence  of  the  like. 

Bill  held  that  when  we  died  we  were  on  the  precise 
level  of  a  dog — we  were  dead,  and  that  was  the  end  of 
us;  consequently,  he  believed  in  living  as  much  like  a 
dog  as  it  was  decent  for  a  dog  to  let  him  in  carrying  out 
the  similarity. 

"What  if  I  do?"  he  would  ask,  in  defence  of  his  living; 
"dogs  air  at  least  white  enough  to  bite  face  to  face,  while 

yer  d psalm-singers  &acfc-bites'  and,  from  what  I  kin 

see  of  their  religion,  when  you've  said  fracfc-bitin',  you've 
cleared  the  deck." 

Such  tenets  were,  of  course,  very  wrong;  but,  neverthe- 
less, when  Bill  branched  out  on  religion,  he  always  made 
"them  psalm-singers"  an  offer,  the  sincerity  of  which  was 
indisputable — for  Bill  was  nothing  if  not  sincere. 

"Here,"  he'd  say,  with  an  oath,  and  shutting  his  knife; 
"you  mourner's  bench  hypocrites,  live  Christ,  instead  o' 

everlastin'ly  preachin'  Him  so  d much,  and  I'll  jine 

you;  but,  till  you  do,  T  don't  want  none  o'  yer  honey 
fugglin'  aroun'  me.  Gimme  value  received  an'  yer  sky- 
pilots  air  welcome  to  Bill  Ott's  grub  seven  days  out  o'  six ! 


66  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Come  on,  Andy;,  les'  go  git  a  gallon!"  and  Andy,  who 
was  Bill's  bottle-holder  in  theology  or  tremens,  would 
"come  on." 

Petticoated  Pike  had  spent  lots  of  sleepless  nights  and 
gabbling  days  worrying  over  Bill  Ott's  wickedness;  not 
that  they  cared  particularly  about  the  wickedness  as  it 
affected  Bill,  for  they  all  very  cheerfully  allowed  that 
perdition  was  Bill's  natural,  logical  and  just  portion  here- 
after. But  his  immoral  effect  on  Beardless  Pike  was  an 
ever-growing  thorn  in  their  sides.  They  harbored  some 
insane  notions  that  Andy  and  the  rest  of  the  boys  would 
never  have  discovered  the  firm  market  value  of  four  aces 
on  enameled  pasteboard,  or  seven  and  eleven  on  cube- 
shaped  bones,  or  of  nocturnally  roasted  fowls;  or  that 
those  poor  lads  would  never  have  assisted  in  keeping  the 
demand  steady  for  grape,  corn  or  bug-juice,  but  for  the 
wiles  of  Wicked  Bill :  that,  in  a  word  (speaking  for  myself 
— don't  imagine  petti  coated  Pike  ever  condensed  the  sit- 
uation to  the  proximity  of  a  word) — that,  in  a  word, 
Wicked  Bill  had  corrupted  the  boys'  morals.  Bill,  when 
notified  of  the  verdict,  which  was  pretty  frequent,  as 
beardless  Pike  loved  to  hear  him  swear,  would  remark 

contemptuously :     "It's  a  pack  o' lies ! 

Them   boys   never   had   no   morals   to 

corrupt !  Why,  h fire,  fox-fire,  an'  ole  Mrs.  Bran,  Andy 

you'd  be  drunker'n  a  biled  owl  year  in  an'  out  'f  'twasn't 
for  me.  I  help  git  away  with  too  much  booze  for  you  to 
stay  loaded  more'n  half  your  time,  an'  me,  the  other  half 
— but  these  wimen  folks  don't  give  me  no  credit  for  it. 
They're  a-goin'  clatter,  clatter,  clatter  'bout  Bill  Ott  all 
the  time,  an'  never  say  nothin'  nohow — make  me  think 

of  these church  bells  of  a  meetin'  day :  a  long  tongue 

an'  a  holler  head,  a  h — 1  of  a  fuss  an'  nothin'  said !     Come 


WICKED   BILL  OTT.  67 

on,  boys,  I  got  a  new  deck ;  less  try  it  a  shot,  two-bits  on  the 
corner !"  and  the  usual  termination  would  follow  the  usual 
invitation. 

Thus  was  Wicked  Bill  Ott.  I  could  easily  fill  two 
volumes,  octavo,  with  "The  Best  Sayings  of  Bill,  the 
Ungodly,"  but  a  strict  compliance  with  the  United  States 
statutes  would  necessitate  blanks,  and  dashes,  and  excla- 
mation points  from  cover  to  cover;  and  as  that  sort  of 
literature  becomes  monotonous,  we  will  pass  Bill  en  passant 
— bid  him  au  revoir  but  not  good-by. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TERRAPIN    AND    TEACHER. 

THE  freight  train  Mat  was  waiting  for  came  puffing  in, 
and  after  a  great  deal  of  jolting  and  waving  of  hands  by 
every  man  in  the  crew,  to  which  the  engineer  paid  not  the 
slightest  attention,  stopped. 

These  railroad  fellows  are  the  transient  deities  of 
such  towns  as  Pike,  and  they  are  very  much  aware  of  it, 
too.  The  favored  kid  of  Juvenile  Pike  who  is  on  a  joking 
basis  with  one  of  the  freight  crew  justly  considers  himself 
cock  o'  the  walk;  and  nothing  gives  one  of  Beardless  Pike 
such  prestige  in  getting  the  cut  for  deal,  or  the  first 
pull  from  an  uncorked  jug,  as  being  on  a  tobacco  chewing 
equality  with  some  passenger  brakeman;  while  the  very 
apex  of  exclusiveness  is  reached  if  the  father  of  the  family 
is  on  a  sufficient  intimacy  with  some  conductor  to  take 
him  behind  the  depot  between  stops  and  uncork  a  bottle. 
But  if  some  member  of  the  community  is  seen  talking 
with  an  engineer,  he  is  ever  afterwards  the  oracle  of  the 
road,  and  can  even  tell  the  depot  agent  when  the  auditors 
will  come  through.  / 

As  Mat's  few  relations  with  the  lords  of  cinders  were 
of  the  purest  biisiness  sort,  and  as  the  lords  of  cinders 
always  made  it  a  point  to  transact  their  part  of  the  rela- 
tions with  as  much  surliness  as  possible,  he  was,  therefore, 
no  longer  the  center  of  talk  when  the  freight  stopped. 
So  he  waited  modestly  until  the  usual  dab  of  merchandise 


TERRAPIN   AND  TEACHER.  69 

was  put  off,  and  after  the  crew  had  rolled  the  door  to  and 
the  train  had  backed  up  and  gone  on  the  siding,  he 
called : 

'•'Ain't  my  cutter  there,  Deck?" 

"Nope,"  answered  the  agent,  running  his  eye  down 
the  bill. 

A  good  many  of  us  would  have  considered  some  strong 
expletive  as  to  the  ultimate  destination  of  the  road  emin- 
ently essential  on  such  an  occasion,  but  Mat  simply 
remarked : 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  I  lost  this  much  time  a-waitin,"  and 
those  of  Juvenile,  Beardless  and  Pantalooned  Pike  who 
had  left  off  paying  court  to  the  crew  to  come  and  see  who 
the  merchandise  was  for,  looked  at  Mat  much  as  you  would 
pity  a  man  who'd  consider  it  a  waste  of  time  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  heaven. 

Mat  had  already  turned  to  go  when  Bill  Ott  sang  out, 
winking  to  the  crowd: 

"Here  comes  'Sixty-seven'  Mat;  you'd  better  wait,  she 
may  be  on  it;  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  gets  some  of  his  stuff 
on  it." 

Great  guffawing  was  thereupon  indulged  in,  but  minus 
Uncle  Alec  McNeil.  He  grew  red  in  the  face — that  is, 
as  red  as  his  already  emblazoned  countenance  could  grow, 
and,  pretending  to  take  Bill  seriously,  said: 

"Why,  shucks !  they  never  ship  field  tools  by  express,  do 
they?" 

Mat  appreciated  a  joke  on  the  old  merchant  as  well  as 
any  of  them,  and  he  replied : 

"Jugs  are  sometimes  used  in  the  field — when  you're  fur 
from  the  well." 

This  brought  down  the  house,  and  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
was  vainly  cudgeling  his  wits  to  make  a  retort,  when  the 


70  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

whistle  of  the  passenger  drew  general  attention.  Mat 
so  seldom  saw  a  passenger  "face  to  face,"  as  the  saying 
is,  that  he  decided  to  waste  just  one  more  minute,  espe- 
cially as  the  boys  would  doubtless  joke  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
considerably  about  his  package.  "Sixty-seven,"  as  she 
was  professionally  known,  came  to  a  labored  stop,  and 
Mat  and  the  boys,  being  busy  looking  down  the  platform 
watching  the  express  car  door  to  see  the  forthcoming 
package,  never  noticed  the  single  passenger  who  alighted. 

The  agent  duly  receipted  for  the  package,  and,  taking 
it  under  his  arm,  started  for  the  office.  The  train  began 
to  pull  out,  and  Mat  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something 
to  start  the  guffawing,  when  he  felt  a  slight  touch  on  his 
arm  and  heard  a  mighty  soft,  musical  voice  ask: 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Mrs.  Doyle's?" 

Mat  faced  around,  as  did  all  the  rest,  and  he  clean 
forgot  his  intended  joke,  and  was  conscious  of  only  two 
things,  viz. :  that  he  was  being  looked  at  by  a  young  lady 
he  never  saw  before,  and  that  the  boys  were  all  craning 
their  necks  behind  him. 

"Yes'm/'  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  question,  at  the 
same  time  removing  his  hat;  "I  live  there/ 

"Oh!  do  you?    Well,  is  it  far?" 

"NVme — just  a  quarter;  I'll — uh — show  you — lemme 
have  your  satchel ;  come  on ;  it's  out  this  way,  'm." 

Having  hustled  out  that  much  in  a  disjointed  breath,  he 
grabbed  the  little  vajtise  she  held  in  her  hand  and  bolted, 
rather  than  walked,  'off,  and  the  young  lady  struck  out 
after  him  with  a  very  undecided  gait,  and  a  very  much 
more  undecided  air  as  to  whether  or  not  he  was  quite 
sane. 

Meanwhile,  the  crowd  had  been  looking  with  only  the 
intensity  a  village  crowd  can  look;  next,  their  looking 


TERRAPIN  AND  TEACHER.  Jl 

changed  to  gaping;  then  smiling,  and,  finally,  when  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil  called  to  the  bolting  Mat:  "Your  cutter's 
come,  ain't  it,  my  son  ?"  the  preceeding  guffawing  dwindled 
to  insignficance.  The  young  lady  quickened  her  pace  and 
gained  Mat's  side.  She  glanced  behind  and  saw  Juvenile, 
Beardless  and  Pantalooned  Pike  in  various  spasmodic 
states  of  contorted  mirth,  and  thought:  "Gracious  me! 
I'd  better  be  with  one  lunatic  than  a  dozen,"  and  fell  into, 
or,  more  properly,  climbed  into,  Mat's  slow-hurry,  glancing 
half-timidly  and  half-amusedly  at  him  the  while. 

"I-i-s  your  n-name  D-Doyle?"  she  asked,  pantingly, 
and  Mat,  on  looking  furtively  down  at  the  young  lady, 
slowed  up  with  a  sudden  jolt  and  answered. 

"Yes'm — excuse  me,  I  forgot  I  was  walkin  fast." 

"That's  all  right;  my  name's  Hennon;  I  received  the 
letter  your — you  all  wrote  me,  and  I  thought,  you  know, 
as  I  had  to  choose  quick  on  account  of  school  opening  so 
soon,  I'd  answer  it  in  person,  you  know." 

"Yesm,"  remarked  Mat,  shifting  the  valise,  which  was 
a  dreadful  little  valise,  and  didn't  require  shifting  at  all 
by  such  a  strong,  big  fellow  as  Mat. 

"Yes'm,"  he  ventured  again,  recollecting  that  she  had 
said  "you  know"  twice,  (and  twice  very  fetchingly,  at 
that),  and  once  more  he  furtively  peeped  down  at  that 
little  hat.  That  wasn't  the  hat  he  had  heard  so  tropically 
spoken  of  by  Dud.  Birds  and  feathers?  Why,  he 
couldn't  see  a  bird  on  it,  and  as  for  feathers — to  be  sure, 
there  was  one  little  raven-black  wing;  but  it  was  a  mighty 
lonesome  little  raven-black  wing,  and  it  had  nothing  gaudy 
or  expensive  looking  about  it.  He  could  have  taken  an  oath 
it  formerly  belonged  to  a  blackbird  or  young  crow.  He 
thought  it  looked  decidedly  better  than  the  many-colored 
paper  roses  and  wide  ribbons  he  had  been  so  used  to 


72  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

seeing  at  Pike  fairs  and  picnics.  It  was  a  very  little 
wing;  but  there  it  was,  perched  on  a  very  little  hat  (Mat 
wondered  how  many  acorns  the  hat  would  hold — maybe 
a  dozen),  and  the  hat  was  perched  on  a  very  little  head, 
and,  as  his  eyes  kept  creeping  and  peeping  down,  down, 
down,  just  a  lee-tie  mite  further  with  each  creep  and  each 
peep,  he  discovered  that  the  head  was  on  a  very  little  lady ; 
and  he  shifted  that  minute  traveling  bag  again  and  won- 
dered why  he,  such  a  lumbering  big  man,  was  afraid  of  her, 
such  a  delicate  little  woman.  Then  he  took  another  peep 
under  the  little  hat-brim,  and  thought,  "No,  'delicate' 
ain't  the  word;  she  don't  appear  to  be  ailin';  but  her  face 
is  mighty  soft  like — and  purty." 

Mat  was  right  The  young  lady's  face  was  "soft  like"; 
not  "soft  like"  in  the  meaning  of  shallow,  for  her  eyes 
were  bright  and  intelligent,  and  her  lips  were  firm  enough 
looking  for  a  judge;  but  "soft  like"  in  its  youth  and 
tenderness.  Mat  had  hardly  believed  it  when  she  spoke 
her  name  and  he  had  peeped  at  her  simple  head-dress. 
Now,  after  he  had  noted  the  well-rounded  profile,  and 
seen  the  open,  confiding,  buoyant  look  of  her  eyes,  even 
though  at  a  very  acute  angle,  he  concluded  that  surely 
she  was  some  other  Miss  Hennon.  The  Miss  Hennon  Dud 
had  talked  about  was  bound  to  be  ugly,  sharp-nosed, 
hatchet-faced  and  way  over  voting  age.  True,  Dud  had 
never  seen  her,  and  had  never  expressed  any  ardent  desire 
to  see  her,  which  wouldn't  have  been  the  case  if  he  had 
been  given  an  accurate,  or  anyways  sort  of  an  accurate, 
description  of  this  Miss  Hennon.  Mat  was  too  well- 
acquainted  with  Dud's  partiality  for  "soft  like — and 
purty"  faces  to  have  any  doubt  on  that  score.  Of  course, 
he — staid  old  Mat — never  let  those  kind  of  faces  turn  Ms 
head ;  but  Dud  always  would,  let  come  what  might. 


TERRAPIN   AND   TEACHER.  73 

Dud's  Miss  Hennon  was,  according  to  Dud,  none  other 
than  some  dried-up  Yankee  old  maid,  run  in  on  Pike 
through  the  machinations  of  Deacon  Hicks;  and,  inas- 
imich  as  the  Deacon  was  homely  himself — which  Mat 
felt  bound  to  admit — Dud,  who  didn't  like  the  Deacon, 
naturally  put  Miss  Hennon — his  Miss  Hennon — in  that 
good  man's  facial  category.  Dud's  Miss  Hennon's  voice 
was  unquestionably  rasping — Dud  said  all  Yankee  old 
maids  voices  were,  and  as  he  had  once  been  as  far 
North  as  Cairo,  he  certainly  knew;  but  this  Miss  Hennon 
— why,  her  voice  floated  up  to  Mat's  ears  like  tiny  sheep 
bells  in  the  valley;  nothing  file-like  about  that  voice, 
although  Cupid  might  find  it  wonderfully  adapted  to 
sharpening  arrows.  So  Mat  scouted  Dud's  Miss  Hennon 
from  his  brain  and  put  this  Miss  Hennon  in  her  stead, 
and  then  mentally  decided  that  he  would  have  been  scared 
of  the  other  one — the  Yankee  old  maid — but  he  honestly 
couldn't  be  very  much  afraid  of  this  one.  After  which 
cogitations  and  conclusion,  he  shifted  the  little  satchel, 
and  the  young  lady  looked  up  demurely  and  said: 

"I'm  afraid  it's  heavy;  you'd  better  let  me  take  it— I 
can  tote  it,"  she  said,  affecting  our  idiom  with  a  delightful 
emphasis. 

"Heavy!  This?"  and  Mat  held  it  at  arm's  length  in 
front  of  him,  and  continued:  "I  ain't  used  to — uh — 
handlin'  'em  much,  'cept  when  mother  goes  a-visitin',  and 
hers  would  make  four  o'  these;  but  it  ain't  as  purty  as 
this,"  he  added,  suddenly,  by  way  of  evening  things  up. 

"Is  Mrs.  Doyle  your  mother?" 

"Yes'm." 

"I  thought,  maybe,  the  Mrs.  Doyle  who  wrote  me  the 
letter  was — that  is,  I  thought  when  you  said  your  name 
was  Doyle  that  you  were  her  husband." 


74  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  Mat,  with  a  half-laugh,  and  then 
murmured  good-humoredly :  "No'me,  she's  my  mother. 
I  reckon  I'd  have  to  hunt  a  good  while  'fore  findin'  a 
wife  like  mother — 'cept  Betty." 

"Betty?" 

"My  sister." 

"Oh!— grown?" 

"I  reckon  you  might  call  her  grown,  but  she  always 
seems  little  to  me :  I'm  older,  you  see." 

"Yes;  the  older  ones  never  realize  that  the  tots  grow 
up  so  fast :  I  know  it  was  the  same  way  in  my  family  after 
I  had  grown  up." 

Grown  up!    Mat  peeped  down  again  and  thought: 

"Grown  up !  Gee !  They  must  be  powerful  little  folks 
and  quick  growers  in  your  family." 

This  time  the  young  lady  caught  him  peeping,  and  she 
said,  laughingly : 

"I  expect  you  are  surprised  to  hear  me  say  I'm  grown  up. 
Well,  you  know  I  think  I've  been  grown  up  a  long  time.  I 
have  had  my  own  living  to  make,  and.  you  know,  it  seems 
so  when  it's  that  way,  doesn't  it  ?" 

Mat  was  too  busy  blushing  at  being  caught  to  more 
than  answer,  "Yes'm" ;  and,  indeed,  on  encountering  those 
twinkling  brown  e)*es,  he  had  darted  back  in  his  shell 
like  a  terrapin.  The  little  valise  came  to  his  rescue,  and 
he  shifted  it  again  and  remarked,  as  though  it  was  a  sub- 
ject of  the  greatest  moment  and  demanded  immediate 
solution:  "I  shouldn't  ""think  these  here  traps  'd  hold 
sca'cely  anything." 

"They  don't;  school  teachers  don't  have  sca'cely  any- 
thing to  hold,  you  know,"  she  replied,  with  that  charming 
little  emphasis  on  the  idiom. 

"I  didn't  mean  that — excuse  me,"  floundered  the  ter- 


TERRAPIN   AND   TEACHER  75 

rapin,  not  daring  to  come  very  far  out  of  his  shell  again 
after  having  said  such  an  unwise  thing. 

"Oh!  I  know  you  didn't/'  she  said,  with  cheery  reas- 
surance; "I  was  just  joking.  School  teachers  aren't  poor 
— that  is,  if  they  are  the  right  kind  of  teachers.  Of 
course,  if  they  teach  for  money  alone  and  lose  sight  of 
the  profession,  why,  you  know,  they'll  think  themselves 
ever  so  poor;  but  a  teacher  who  loves  her  calling  isn't 
poor.  I  wouldn't  change  places  with  a — a — plumber," 
she  declared,  and  laughed  a  short,  merry  little  laugh.  Mat, 
not  being  a  city  man,  failed  to  catch  the  joke  on  the  poor 
plumber,  but  if  he  had,  it's  odds  that  he  wouldn't  have 
laughed  much.  He  was,  at  that  precise  junqture,  too 
much  staggered  in  mind.  Here  was  this  Miss  Hennon 
talking  about  money  as  though  it  was  quite  a  secondary 
consideration,  whereas  Dud's  Miss  Hennon,  according  to 
Dud,  was  surely  "out  for  the  dollar,"  those  being  Dud's 
very  words.  Mat  decided  emphatically  to  bring  Dud  to  see 
this  Miss  Hennon  and  make  him  acknowledge  his  error. 
But,  "hold  on,"  he  thought,  suddenly;  he  was  thinking 
about  bringing  Dud  to  see  this  Miss  Hennon,  and  here  they 
were  only  at  the  front  gate,  with  Mother  Doyle  and  Betty 
yet  to  meet  this  Miss  Hennon  and  this  Miss  Hennon  yet 
to  meet  them,  and  casting  up  of  probable  likes  and  dislikes 
yet  to  be  had.  The  reflection  made  Mat  smile  behind  his 
teeth.  Oh !  wouldn't  Betty  joke  him  if  she  knew  he  was 
planning  to  bring  somebody  to  meet  a  young  lady  whose 
arrival  he  had  been  fearing  worse  than  war,  pestilence  and 
famine, — the  contemplation  of  whose  boarding  with  them 
had  been  one  unbroken  shudder, — :the  mention  of  whose 
name  had  acted  even  worse  on  him  than  sausages,  or 
bacon,  or  smoke-houses !  He  trembled,  as  he  went  behind 
Miss  Henon  up  the  walk,  for  fear  Betty  had  heard  his 


/6  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

thoughts.  He  wasn't  nearly  as  afraid  of  the  little  lady  in 
front  of  him  as  he  had  believed  and  dreamt  he  would  be; 
in  fact,  he  could  now  realize  that  Miss  Hennon  would 
be  a  great  addition  on  Betty's  account:  she  could  be  the 
finest  sort  of  company  for  Betty ;  my !  Betty  was  in  luck ! 
But  he — he  would  have  dropped  that  little  valise  and  made 
tracks  for  good  if  he  thought  Betty  would  ever  be  so 
outrageous  as  to  pretend  to  read  his  mind,,  or  start  any 
other  sort  of  foolishness  before  Miss  Hennon.  It  wouldn't 
have  amounted  to  so  much  if  she  had  materialized  like 
unto  Dud's  Miss  Hennon;  but  now,  since  she  had  turned 
out  to  be  this  Miss  Hennon,  it  would  never  do — never 
in  the  world.  Betty  must  be  warned,  and  if  that  didn't 
suit,  begged;  and  if  that  failed,  bribed,  to — to — to — not 
hurt  Miss  Hennon's  feelings;  yes,  that  was  it — not  hurt 
Miss  Hennon's  feelings  by  any  of  her  joking.  He  didn't 
care  as  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned — that  is,  there 
was  nothing  to  joke  him  for;  but  he  would  feel  mighty 
cut  up  to  have  Betty  hurt  Miss  Hennon's  feelings;  she 
had  to  make  her  own  living,  which  was,  of  itself,  a 
hardship  of  the  worst  kind.  At  that  stage  of  his  reflec- 
tions you  couldn't  have  made  him  remember  that  he  had 
recently  told  Dud,  even  in  fun,  that  teaching  wasn't 
anything  much.  Xor  could  3rou  have  made  him  own 
up  that  lie  had  but  recently  told  Betty  it  would  take  more 
than  a  teacher  to  make  him  break  a  principle.  I  don't 
exactly  mean  that,  either,  for  Mat  really  was,  as  Dud 
truthfully  remarked,  "the'-beatenest  fellow  for  principle"; 
but  Mat  was  a  logician,  too — one  with  a  strongly  twisted 
lawyer's  kink,  and  had  you  reminded  him  of  his  words  to 
Betty,  he  would  have  came  back  at  you  in  a  terribly  inno- 
cent manner,  thus: 

"Why,  I  didn't  exactly,  as  you  might  say,  mean  any 


TERRAPIN  AND  TEACHER.  77 

teacher;  of  course,,  it  would  take  more'n  a  teacher  like 
Dud's  Miss  Hennon  to  make  me  break  a  principle;  but 
this  Miss  Hennon  wouldn't  try  to  make  a  feller  break  a 
principle  in  the  first  place,  and  if  she  did,  I'll  be  bound 
it'd  be  some  bad  principle  he'd  ought  to  'a'  broke  long 
ago." 

Whether  Mat  was  studying  all  this  or  not  is  purely  a 
matter  of  speculation;  but  whatever  was  uppermost  in 
his  head  had  caused  him  to  stalk  on  behind  the  young  lady 
as  though  the  house  was  forty  miles,  instead  of  steps, 
away.  Not  until  he  heard  a  stir  in  the  hall  did  he  perceive 
that  their  approach  was  observed,  and  when  he  glanced 
up  and  just  caught  a  bare  glimpse  of  Betty  darting  across 
the  floor,  he  drew  back  in  his  shell  with  a  Jack-in-the-box 
suddenness,  and  shifted  that  little  valise  like  a  fellow 
juggling  a  powerfully  hot  potato. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

THE  DEACON  AND  THE  JOKE. 

BEACON  HICKS  was  standing  before  the  lone  window  of 
his  office — his  office  and  "deadfall"  combined.  He  was 
gazing  out  on  the  exciting  panorama  of  seven  pigs  pump- 
ing their  ma  dry  over  by  the  town  well;  a  jaundiced- 
looking  star  route  plug  nibbling  the  hitching-post  over 
by  the  postoffice,  and  some  enervated  specimens  of 
Beardless  Pike  pitching  horseshoes  over  by  the  depot — 
lads  too  far  gone  to  expend  their  muscular  power  on 
plough-handles  or  hoe-stocks. 

The  Deacon  smiled  a  sweet  smile  of  sanctified  happi- 
ness. The  Deacon  was  a  holy  man,  and,  as  a  general 
thing,  discountenanced  smiles;  for  he  was  orthodox  as 
well  as  holy.  Yet  the  Deacon  smiled.  I  might  ask, 
after  the  language  of  McGuffey's  First  Reader,  "Do  you  see 
the  Deacon  smile  ?"  but  as  Dore  failed  miserably  to  render 
me  a  faithful  likeness  of  the  Deacon  to  accompany  the 
query,  it  would,  of  course,  be  an  absurdity.  You  don't 
see  the  Deacon  smile,  and  I  greatly  fear,  unless  you  have 
seen  him  in  life.  I  cannot  give  you  a  recast  of  his  outer 
self  with  due  and  faithfial  comprehensiveness,  smiling  or 
not  smiling. 

Or,  I  might  exclaim,  with  the  one-syllable  Scriptorian, 

"Oh  !  See  the  Deacon  smile !"  but  the  exclamation  would 

perchance  jar  the  atmosphere  of  chaste  joy  which  pervad- 

eth  the  Deacon's  office — his  office  and  "deadfall"  com- 

[78] 


THE  DEACON  AND  THE  JOKE.         79 

bined.  Or,  I  might  dive  into  Harkness'  verbs  and  fish  out 
an  imperative:  "See  the  Deacon  smile,"  were  it  not  for 
arousing  the  combative  inquiry  of,  <fWhy,  pray,  should  I 
stop  work  to  see  the  Deacon  smile  ?"  Why,  indeed !  And 
why,  forsooth,  shouldn't  you  ?  It  isn't  often  you  are  allowed 
the  privilege  of  seeing  this  holy  man  smile.  At  Christ- 
mastide,  when  he  hands  the  costly  bags  of  priceless  candy 
to  the  thrice-blessed  jewels  of  Petticoated  Pike,  then  he 
smiles — one  smile  for  each  bag,  and  one  for  each  infantile 
jewel.  At  harvest-time,  when  the  little  nickels  and  the 
wee  dimes  are  placed  in  his  (temporary)  keeping  by  the 
zealous  Little  Lights  and  Busy  Bees  and  other  Pike  tots, 
to  be  forwarded  to  the  dear  little  naked  Hottentots,  freez- 
ing in  Hottentotville,  then  he  smiles — one  smile  for  each 
nickel  and  dime,  one  smile  for  each  Little  Light  and 
Busy  Bee,  and  one  extra-sized,  super- juicy  smile  for  good 
measure  to  the  credit  side  of  the  Hottentot  fund  (and  I 
ween,  between  us,  that  extra-sized,  super-juicy  smile  is 
the  nearest  approach  to  things  not  rust  or  moth  proof  which 
the  credit  side  of  the  Hottentot  fund  ever  experiences). 
But,  between  these  smiling  festivals,  the  good  man's 
countenance  is  devoid  of  sunny  ripples.  He  frowneth; 
yea,  he  frowneth  muchleth.  Male  Pike,  meaning  the 
three  great  divisions  of  Juvenile,  Beardless  and  Panta- 
looned  Pike,  causes  him  to  frown  frequently;  though  the 
only  visible  effect  thus  far  apparent  on  Male  Pike,  was 
when  the  Deacon  had  once  frowned  a  most  ferocious  frown 
and  Wicked  Bill  Ott  had  said:  "I'll  be  shot  clar  through 
my  chicken-stealin'  gizzard  if  the  Deacon's  little  inch-an'- 
a-quarter  forehead  don't  look  'zackly  like  a  strip  o'  rich 
pine  mouldin'  when  he  frowns  that  away !"  Male  Pike 
had  on  that  occasion  guffawed  wantonly,  but  still  the 
Deacon  frowned — one  frown  for  each  guffaw. 


SO  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

So,  I  must  inquire  again,  even  at  the  risk  of  offense, 
"And  why,  forsooth,  should  you  not  see  the  Deacon 
smile?" 

Added  to  the  rarity  of  the  thing,  which  should  enhance 
its  commercial  value  if  nothing  else,  the  Deacon's  smile 
furnishes  a  study  in  physiology  that  is  at  once  sublime, 
and — no,  I  will  not  say  ridiculous;  but  like-producing. 
The  Deacon  was  not  a  handsome  man.  That  and  his  piety 
are  two  subjects  on  which  no  dispassionate  pair  of  observers, 
could  disagree.  They  stand  out  as  shining  exceptions  and 
rebukes  to  the  axiom  that  you  can  always  find  two  parties 
to  differ  on  anything.  Dud,  true  enough,  had  very  pro- 
nounced notions  as  to  the  Deacon's  piety;  but  they  were 
merely  notions,  not  deserving  the  dignified  appellation  of 
views.  He  called  the  Deacon  an  arrant  humbug,  and 
said  if  there  was  anything  to  again  justify  Christ's 
appearance  on  earth,  it  would  be  to  annihilate  such  pre- 
tenders to  His  grace.  But  when  Mat  pinned  his  old  chum 
down  to  hard  proof  Dud  would  have  to  crawfish  and  take 
refuge  on  the  very  unstable  island  of  generalities.  True 
enough,  also,  Wicked  Bill  Ott  and  his  cohorts,  who  were 
locally  styled  the  Ott  outfit,  held  the  Deacon's  piety  below 
the  level  of  an  empty  jug  with  a  hole  in  the  bottom.  But 
then  the  Ott  outfit,  like  our  political  parties,  felt  bound 
to  oppose  and  villify  anything  or  anybody  who  threatened 
their  existence.  Petticoated  Pike's  hysterical  holiness  and 
Mat's  unassuming  Christianity  no  more  escaped  mud  baths 
than  did  the  Deacon's  professional  brand, — the  only  dif- 
ference being  that  in  the  two  former  instances  the  mud 
was  only  lightly  and  occasionally  administered,  while  in 
the  latter  it  was  daubed  and  smeared  on  in  season  and 
out  of  season,  during  revivals  and  between  revivals.  But 


THE  DEACON  AND  THE  JOKE.  8 1 

Dud's  and  the  Ott  outfits'  notions  had  a  very  insignificant 
quotation  on  Pike's  Church  'Change. 

Petticoated  Pike  Tcnew  Deacon  Hicks  was  a  follower 
of  the  Lamb;  they  just  simply  Tcnew  it;  and,  of  course, 
against  that  clear,  cogent,  and  concise  exposition  of  the 
matter,  there  could  he  no  disputing. 

Mat,  dear  old  fellow  that  he  was,  sincerely  believed 
that  Deacon  Hicks  was  a  power  for  good.  "To  the  good, 
all  things  are  good,"  and  that  truism  carries  with  it  the 
correlative  that  the  truly  good  are  poor  judges  of  human 
nature.  To  have  told  Mat  that  the  species  of  which 
Deacon  Hicks  was  such  a  pronounced  success,  used  the 
pure  precepts  of  the  Gallilean  for  the  basest  and  most 
sordid  motives,  would  have  terribly  shocked  his  confiding 
faith  in  the  Cloth.  He  admitted  that  now  and  then,  at 
very  rare  intervals,  some  indiscreet  sheep  strayed  too  near 
the  wolf,  but  he  accounted  for  this  on  the  reasonable 
ground  that  no  body  corporate,  whatsoever  its  aim,  creed, 
or  tenet,  could  always  expect  an  entire  unsullied  member- 
ship. If  indiscretions,  (that  was  the  strongest  term  Mat 
would  employ),  if  indiscretions  did  sometimes  occur  in 
the  Church,  he  said  they  were  indiscretions  of  the  head 
and  not  the  heart,  and  inasmuch  as  Mat  regarded  the 
inside  of  Deacon  Hicks'  head  as  the  veritable  sanctorum 
of  business  and  religious  perfection  he  wouldn't  hear 
to  any  of  Dud's  idiomatic  epithets. 

Thus  the  controversy  on  Deacon  Hicks'  piety  as  Pike 
saw  it.  There  Avas  no  such  division  as  to  his  physique. 

I  have  said  that  there  was  nothing  exceptional  enough 
about  Uucle  Alec  McNeil's  makeup  to  cause  a  stir  in  a 
crowd.  Though  the  Deacon  wasn't  near  as  tall,  nor  as 
broad,  nor  as  long,  nor  as  heavy,  nor  so  rotund  as  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil,  yet  every  separate  feature  and  member  of 


82  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

his  anatomy  would  have  not  only  caused  commotion  In  a 
crowd — an  ordinary,  mediocre,  common,  every-day  crowd 
— but  would  have  precipitated  a  gathering  of  med- 
ical students  into  paroxysms  of  experimental  ecstacy.  Not 
being  a  medico,  and  having  seen  the  holy  Beacon  in  all 
his  moods  and  modes,  I  can  now  contemplate  him  with 
feelings  somewhat  akin  to  equanimity.  Consequently, 
there  is  small  danger  of  my  soaring  into  the  mythical 
realms  of  a  railroad  scenic  description. 

It  would  be  a  misnomer  to  call  the  Deacon's  feet  large; 
they  were  in  too  chaotic  a  state  of  corns  and  bunions  for 
it  to  be  determined  wether  they  really  were  enormous  feet 
or  liliputian  mountain  ranges.  His  shoes,  number  nine, 
double  E,  were  simply  full  and  spilling  over  with  feet. 
They  were  hacked  and  slashed  and  gapped  to  allow  breath- 
ing holes  for  the  corns  and  bunions  alluded  to.  If  it  was 
a  fact,  as  Petticoated  Pike  knew  it  was,  that  Deacon  Hicks' 
soul  was  too  big  for  his  body,  it  could  have  unquestionably 
found  elbow  room  in  his  feet,  and  when  the  summons  at 
last  should  have  come  to  shuffle  off  its  corns  and  bunions, 
it  could  have  mounted  gently  and  easily  upward  through 
the  leather  port-holes.  Any  one  might  suppose  that  Nature, 
with  her  eye  ever  to  utility  and  economy,  would  only  put 
such  gigantic  foundations  for  Gothic  pillars,  whereas  the 
fact  was,  if  Wicked  Bill  Ott's  testimony  is  to  be  believed 
(and  in  this  isolated  instance  it  is),  the  Deacon  had 
swapped  legs  with  a  mocking  bird  and  beat  the  mocking 
bird  all  hollow  in  the'-irade.  The  Deacon  could  have 
worn  trousers  a  la  Louis  the  Fourteenth  and  still  have  had 
a  vacuum  left,  but,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  he 
preferred  breeches  that  could  have  been  transferred  to  a 
bloomerite  without  any  letting  out  at  the  seams.  The  good 
man's  legs  were  not  on  a  footing  of  the  closest  intimacy, 


THE  DEACON  AND  THE  JOKE.  83 

albeit  they  were  perpetually  bowing  to  one  another:  to 
be  plain  about  it,  his  legs  were  fearfully  and  amazingly 
bowed.  To  see  the  Deacon  upon  a  windy  day  put  out  down 
the  street  with  his  pants  flaping  wildly  and  nothing  but 
those  number  nine,  double  E's  preventing  his  pins  from 
being  blown  away,  reminded  one  forcibly  of  a  pair  of 
chair  rockers  in  tow  sacks;  or  one  of  those  paper-envel- 
oped circus  hoops  after  the  clown  has  jumped  through  it. 
Wicked  Bill  Ott  allowed  that  he'd  almost  join  the  church 
to  get  such  a  pair  of  curved  cornstalks  as  the  Deacon's; 
he  could  then  sit  astride  a  barrel  in  a  seven-up  game  and 
play  his  hand  with  luxuriant  ease,  and  drink  without 
moving. 

The  Deacon's  neck  was  the  envy  of  every  turkey  gobbler 
in  the  neighborhood.  His  Adam's  apple  was  its  most  prom- 
inent feature,  though  its  general  hue  was  not  by  any 
means  to  be  sneezed  at.  If  you  have  ever  seen  a  proud 
gobbler  puff  the  blood  all  up  in  his  neck  you  have  seen 
the  Deacon's  at  its  most  scarlet  period.  What  produced 
such  a  significant  color  is  entirely  a  matter  of  conjecture. 
Petticoated  Pike  just  knew  that  all  sorts  of  "licker,"  from 
the  ginger  bitters  dispensed  by  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  to 
the  city  lightning-rod  variety,  produced  the  ever-bloom- 
ing morning  glory  on  the  tip  of  Wicked  Bill  Ott's  nose; 
but  Petticoated  Pike  just  knew,  too,  that  Deacon  Hicks 
was  too  good  a  Baptist  to  ever  drink.  So  we  can't  lay 
his  flamboyant  neck  to  the  Demon  Eum.  Nor  can  we 
ascribe  it  to  the  pride  that  causes  Mister  Gobbler  to 
grow  so  red  in  the  craw,  for  we  know  that  good  man  was 
orthodox,  and  orthodoxy  is  the  antipodes  of  that  ribald 
sort  of  pride;  and  there  being  no  other  hypothesis  to 
work  on,  we  can  account  for  the  hue  of  that  neck  only  as 


84  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

an  insoluble  phenomenon  of  nature — poor  Nature!  you 
come  in  for  a  good  deal,  don't  you  ? 

The  Deacon  could  have  concealed  the  color  behind  a 
high  collar  had  it  been  brought  there  by  any  undue  means, 
but  as  it  "just  growed,"  he  felt  no  qualms  of  exposure.  He 
wore  a  little  strip  of  starched  linen  around  his  neck,  which 
was  nigh  overlapped  by  a  very  narrow,  dingy,  black  string 
tie — mostly  string,  and  very  little  tie,  either  as  to  material 
or  construction. 

The  Deacon's  face  was  the  crowning  masterpiece  of 
his  "earthly  temple,"  as  he  was  wont  to  call  his  body. 
On  a  specimen  of  the  monkey  tribe  engaged  in  a  painful 
search  for  an  evasive  flea,  the  Deacon's  face,  as  he  smiled, 
would  have  been  a  faithful  representation  from  a  strictly 
zoological  standpoint;  but  perched  on  a  man's  shoulders, 
even  though  very  skimpy,  round,  stooping  shoulders,  that 
face  wouldn't  do  from  any  logical  standpoint.  It  was  both 
sublime  and  ridiculous.  Sublime,  to  contemplate  how 
closely  we  are  allied  to  the  chattering  simians ;  sublime,  to 
study  how  Nature  can  perform  such  multifarious  and 
antagonistic  feats  out  of  the  same  clay,  and  ridiculous  to 
look  at  it — just  simply  look  at  it.  If  the  little  girl  in 
the  joke  had  been  there,  she  would  have  been  eminently 
justified  in  asking:  "Deacon,  do  that  again,  please,  sir; 
ma  didn't  see?" 

The  righteous  man  was  smooth  shaven;  that  is,  as 
smooth  shaven  as  a  pairxjf  ridge-like  jawbones  and  door- 
knob cheek  bones,  dotted*  generously  with  bilious  bumps, 
will  allow  one  to  be.  Little,  tiny  tufts  of  brittle,  sandy 
beard  peeped  here  and  there  between  the  red  blotches  where 
the  razor  had  been  unable  to  dig,  or  gouge,  or  scrooge  them 
out;  but,  on  the  whole,  we  may  stretch  a  point  and  say 
the  Deacon  was  smooth  shaven. 


THE  DEACON  AND  THE  JOKE.  85 

As  he  stood  by  his  lone  window,  with  his  face  enveloped 
in  that  clarified  smile,  he  showed  to  whoever  cared  to 
observe  them  a  collection  of  teeth  that  were  the  wonder 
and  despair  of  dentistry.  Like  the  song  about  the  unfor- 
tunate man's  leg,  some  of  his  teeth  were  longer  than  they 
really  should  have  been;  some  were  shorter;  others  were 
missing;  some  were  pointing  outwards;  some  inwards; 
some  sideways ;  some  had  quit  pointing  altogether ;  but  none 
of  them  seemed  to  grow  or  know  straight  up.  They  had 
long  since  given  up  the  notion  of  dying  with  the  Deacon, 
and  were  now  preceding  him  to  the  grave  in  various  stages 
of  decay,  until  they  all  resembled  the  sharp-pointed, 
blackened,  sapling  stumps  we  see  in  recently  fired  woods. 

The  meek  man's  eyes  r.-ere  devoutly  in  keeping  with 
their  owner's  piety — meek,  docile,  mild  as  the  surface  of 
an  artificial  pond.  They  were  not  the  common  convex 
eyes  you  see  in  ordinary  sockets;  they  were  a  creation 
unto  themselves.  They  didn't  bulge  out  or  sing  back,  but 
stood  on  an  exact  level  with  his  cheek,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  look  into  the  filmy,  greenish,  stagnant  pupils  and 
imagine  any  such  thing  as  depth.  The  thickness  of  a 
pin-point  would  have  been  of  sufficient  length  to  have 
strung  them  on  and  spun  them  around  without  the  slight- 
est danger  of  their  falling  off.  They  were  fringed  by  a 
fiery  raw  circle  of  lids  produced  by  sore  eyes,  and,  to  take 
in  eyes  and  lids  at  a  sweep,  put  one  in  mind  of  looking 
square  at  the  noonday  sun,  when  nothing  at  all  is  visible 
in  the  centre  and  only  a  red  ring  all  around. 

Wicked  Bill,  in  allowing  the  pure  man  an  inch  and  a 
quarter  for  his  forehead,  was  perhaps  allowing  too  great 
a  margin,  but,  of  course,  Wicked  Bill  was  merely  guess- 
ing. Happening  to  have  the  exact  measurement  at  hand, 
I  can  certify  that  Deacon  Hicks'  forehead  at  no  place 


86  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

between  his  temples  exceeded  an  inch  in  width,  and  a 
mightly  scant  inch  at  that.  Even  at  the  point  where 
most  foreheads  merge  with  the  nose,  the  width  was  the 
same,  for  there  was  not  enough  space  between  his  eyes  to 
allow  either  merging  or  measurement. 

The  Deacon's  hair  grew  in  one  clump  of  sandy-colored 
roots  at  the  farthest  middle  point,  back,  on  the  top  of 
his  head,  and  it  radiated  from  its  base  in  jagged  lines  like 
streaks  of  lightning.  Sad  to  record,  his  hair  did  not 
imbibe  the  Deacon's  general  spirit  of  docility ;  it  stubbornly 
refused  all  persuasion  of  brush  or  comb,  and  remained 
an  unconverted  daub  of  tow-like  wretchedness.  The 
cranium  it  adorned  had  just  enough  room,  and  no  more, 
to  accommodate  it,  sparse  as  it  was,  and  as  to  the  hat- 
that  went  with  the  cranium,  a  muddy,  black-brown-looking 
piece  of  felt,  misshapen,  perforce  and  per  wear,  I  can 
find  use  for  Bill's  spare  quarter  of  an  inch — its  size  being 
six  and  a  fourth  to  a  T. 

The  last  and  strongest  attribute  of  this  virtuous  man 
was  his  breath :  it  positively  wouldn't  bear  description,  even 
were  I  able  "to  paint  a  stench." 

There  he  is.  Stand  off — beyond  gunshot  of  his.  breath — 
and  see  him  smile.  Do  you  ask  why  the  Deacon  smiles, 
gentle  reader  ?  Sit  down  and  I  will  tell  thee.  The  Deacon 
smiles  because  he  discerns  the  point  of  a  joke.  The  Deacon 
never  jokes,  himself,  nor  does  he  encourage  others  to  do  so, 
holding  that  jokes  cause/smiles,  smiles  happiness,  and  hap- 
piness unorthodoxy.  But  this  joke  is  too  irresistible  for 
anything,  and  as  it  is  related  to  the  Deacon's  pious  plans 
and  affects  his  humble  path  of  duty,  he  grants  himself 
dispensation  from  orders  just  this  once,  and  indulges  every 
relaxable  portion  of  his  face  (tersely  dubbed  "Nubbin 


THE  DEACON  AND  THE  JOKE.  87 

Eidge"  by  Bill),  in  one  long  nectared  smile  of  sugared 
sanctity.  . 

0 !  SEE  THE  DEA-CON  SMILE !  IS  IT  NOT  NICE 
TO  BE  A-BLE  TO  SMILE  LIKE  UN-TO  THE 
DEA-CON?  YES.  THEN  BE  HO-LY  LIKE  UN-TO 
THE  DEA-CON,  GEN-TLE  EEA-DEE,  AND  YOU 
CAN  SMILE  LIKE  THAT  YOUE-SELF  SOME  DAY. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  JOKE. 

WHEN  Mat  started  off  in  such  an  unceremonious  fashion 
at  the  depot  the  morning  of  Miss  Hennon's  arrival,  and 
Uncle  Alec  McNeil  asked  him,  in  by  no  means  a  low  tone  of 
,voice,  if  his  cutter  hadn't  come,  and  emphasized  the  cutter, 
Male  Pike,  meaning,  of  course,  the  three  great  divisions  of 
Juvenile.  Beardless  and  Pantalooned  Pike,  went  wild  with 
hilarity.  The  question  was  a  joke.  I  don't  know  whether 
it  should  have  been  so  labeled  to  enable  mediocre  intellects 
to  grasp  it  understandingly,  but,  nevertheless,  for  fear  every 
one  who  reads  this  is  not  a  Sherlock  Holmes,  I  will  repeat, 
it  was  a  joke.  Male  Pike  allowed  it  was  the  "doggondest 
joke  heerd  for  a  stretch  'roun'  thai*/'  and  the  old  heads  who 
had  heard  jokes  before  the  war,  the  other  war — when  every- 
thing from  jokes  to  jimson  weed  was  of  a  much  finer 
quality — declared  that  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  had  simply  out- 
Uncle-Alec-McNeiled  himself  when  he  gave  utterance  to 
that  scintillating  shaft. 

The  hilarious  echoes  reached  the  Doyleses,  as  Petticoated 
Pike  was  wont  to  term  pjhirals,  and  the  Dovleses,  as  far  as 
Mother  Doyle  and  Betty Vere  concerned,  gave  a  howdy  and 
a  speed-the-parting  to  the  hilarious  echoes:  as  far  as  Mat 
went — and  he  went  pretty  far  in  his  shell — the  hilarious 
echoes  received  a  very  glum,  shaky  welcome,  if,  indeed,  it 
could  be  called  a  welcome  at  all. 

Then  the  hilarious  echoes  went  dancing  on  down  the 


THE  JOKE.  89 

county  road  and  bounded  in  on  one  bachelor,  yclept  Dud 
Trenome.  If  Mother  Doyle  and  Betty  gave  those  hilarious 
echoes  a  howdy,  Dud  gave  them  a  regular  prodigal  son 
reception.  To  think  of  old  terrapin  Mat  jaybirdin'  (that 
was  the  way  Dud  put  it) — jaybirdin'  up  the  road  arni  in 
arm,  (Dud  imagined  the  arm  in  arm), — arm  in  arm,  then, 
with  a  befeathered  and  beribboned,  (Dud  clung  like  a  bull- 
dog to  the  feathers  and  ribbons), — befeathered  and  berib- 
boned Yankee  schoolmarm,  whose  age  was — well,  Dud's 
vivid  imagination  balked  at  the  age,  but  the  hatchet  face 
and  the  rasping  voice — they  were  there.  0 !  my !  Dud 
brought  out  the  best  rocker  in  his  den  and  told  those  hilar- 
ious echoes  to  take  a  chair  and  stay  to  dinner,  and  then  he 
went  to  the  well,  ostensibly  to  draw  a  bucket  of  water,  but 
really  to  stamp,  and  paw,  and  twist,  and  alternately  gasp, 
"Dern  my  time  !"  "Old  Mat  and  the  school  marm — Lord 
a-mercy  !  "  "  Won't  I  warm  him — gosh !"  "Pretendin'  to 
go  for  a  cutter !  the  scamp !" 

But  the  most  appreciative  reception  was  that  tendered 
by  Deacon  Setton  Hicks  to  the  hilarious  echoes.  He  locked 
the  door  of  his  office — his  office  and  "deadfall"  combined — 
and,  going  to  the  window  where  his  gaze  could  float  upon 
the  atmosphere  unobstructed  by  bad  flour  and  worse  "sow 
belly,"  he  indulged  in  the  pose  and  smile  described  above, 
and  ambled  gracefully  into  reminiscences  and  cogitations 
set  forth  below. 

Like  Homer,  the  Deacon's  initial  watering,  or  milking, 
place  is,  as  yet,  unknown,  and  consequently,  unhonored  and 
unsung;  or,  at  least,  not  as  fully  honored  and  sung  as  it 
will  be  when  an  all-enlightening  millenium  shall  have  dis- 
closed its  location.  Perchance  it  has  already  sent  states- 
men and  warriors — and  Congressmen — before  the  world's 
footlights  to  herald  its  fertility  in  gray  matter,  but  when  it 


90  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

shall  have  become  known  as  Setton  Hicks'  birthplace,  then, 
and  then  only,  will  Fame  tune  her  strings  to  the  proper 
Wagnerian  pitch.  Unlike  Homer,  however,  there  is,  to 
date,  no  mention  of  seven  cities  claiming  his  cradleship. 
The  Deacon,  himself,  says,  and  says  emphatically,  that 
he  was  ushered  in  at  a  point  considerably  more  north  of 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  than  south ;  but  as  I  entertain  too 
great  a  respect,  as  a  Unionist,  for  any  given  point  in  the 
circumference  of  our  domain  (yes,  even  Taguig!)  to  name 
it  the  starting  point  of  the  Hickses,  I  must  and  will  be 
silent. 

One  thing  positive,  the  Deacon's  entrance  into  Pike  was 
at  a  very  much  later  date  and  in  a  far  different  manner 
than  his  "first  appearance."  The  Deacon  came  to  Pike 
when  the  railroad  came — the  new  road — or  thereabouts.  He 
brought  with  him  a  little  knotty  head  filled  with  little 
knotty  schemes,  which  schemes,  when  unknotted,  were  to 
result  in  nine  parts  profit  to  Hicks  and  one  part  profit  to 
Pike,  or  nine  parts  loss  to  Pike  and  one  part  loss  to  Hicks. 
In  short,  he  came  to  Pike — like  scores  of  other  adventurers 
have  come  to  scores  of  other  Pikes — to  fleece  Pike,  whether 
or  no.  The  railroad  that  had  run  through,  or  got  through 
somehow,  (legislators  and  lobbyists  can  best  tell  how),  dis- 
tributed oceans  of  rainbow  literature  lauding  Pike  through- 
out the  East,  which  literature  made  it  clear  to  the  Hicks 
tribe  that  the  immense  pine  tracts  were  put  in  Pike  by  a 
kind  Providence  for  n«f  other  purpose  than  the  enriching 
of  the  Hickses.  Thereupon,  the  Hickses  "jumped"  as  many 
debts  as  they  could  contract  up  ISTorth,  and  then  jumped 
aboard  the  new  road,  and,  before  Pike  realized  it,  Pike  had 
received  a  choice  sample  of  Eastern  Capital  and  Eastern 
Progress,  about  which  our  Southern  Supreme  Courts  are  so 
solicitous  in  their  construction  of  anti-trust  measures. 


THE  JOKE.  91 

This  particular  shining  member  of  the  Hickses,  to  wit, 
Setton  Hicks,  landed  on  all  fours  in  this  particular  Pike, 
and  ere  long  the  hum,  and  buzz,  and  whirr,  and  puff  of  the 
sawmill  played  a  ceaseless  serenade  to  the  erstwhile  pensive 
Pike  'possum.  So  far  so  good ! 

Setton  Hicks  hired  Pantalooned  Pike  and  Pantalooned 
Pike  chopped,  and  sawed,  and  "snaked"  in  quite  a  prodig- 
ious manner  for  Setton  Hicks,  on  quite  prodigious  wages. 
Setton  Hicks  incidentally  laid  out  Pike — not  pugilistically 
speaking,  but  municipally.  Town  lots,  streets,  alleys,  side- 
walks, and  the  inevitable  railroad-backwater-town  "Front 
Street,"  superseded  coon  hunts,  barbecues — and  other 
frontier  gossip,  and  Pantalooned  Pike  allowed  that  Setton 
Hicks  was  a  "fust-rate  man,"  and  continued  to  chop  away 
right  royally  for  Setton  Hicks  and— PROGRESS.  Setton 
Hicks  and — PROGRESS  were  shortly  carving  into  those 
pine  tracts  with  the  vigor  of  a  watermelon  darkey,  and 
"two  b'  fours,"  and  "one  b'  twelves,"  and  "dimension  stuff," 
and  "sidin' "  became  household  phrases  where  "taller"  and 
"hum'spun"  had  reigned  supreme.  Verily,  verily  P  was 
beginning  to  stand  for  Pike  as  well  as  PROGRESS  !  Mean- 
while, the  new  road,  being  the  only  road,  charged  Setton 
Hicks  in  a  manner  quite  scandalous  for  freight  rates. 

Meanwhile,  those  pine  tracts,  once  the  crust  was  broken 
into,  began  to  develop  a  great  deal  of  "culls"  in  a  great 
deal  of  swamp. 

Meanwhile,  Seton  Hicks  evolved  a  plan  which  didn't 
need  much  evolving,  inasmuch  as  he  had  already  brought  it 
down  South  with  him,  and  which  was  simply  to  cut  all  the 
pine  he  could,  in  as  few  years  as  he  could,  pay  as  little 
as  he  could,  and  then  bid  adieu  to  Pike,  and  bundle  himself 
and  his  PROGRESS  off  to  uncut  tracts.  He  thereupon 
began  to  lower  his  prices  on  buying,  and  imported  a  slick, 


92  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

sleek  timberman  to  estimate  timber  according  to  Hicks. 
Gradually  Pantalooned  Pike  began  to  discover  that  their 
lands,  tenements  and  hereditaments  weren't  yielding  as 
much  pine  per  acre  as  formerly,  and  with  the  discovery 
came  its  twin  brother — "decline  in  the  Eastern  market." 
The  Hickses  have  always  employed  that  phrase  advan- 
tageously at  critical  junctures,  and  Setton  found  it  as  val- 
uable as  it  had  ever  been  and  ever  will  be.  He  told  Pant- 
alooned Pike  that  his  shipments  were  netting  very  little 
East  now,  and  that  as  most  of  their  pine,  now,  was,  accord- 
ing to  his  slick,  sleek  timberman,  gnarled,  and  below  gauge, 
he  must  drop  his  wages  until  the  East  advanced,  and  their 
tracts  improved,  contemporaneously,  he  introduced  the 
"deadfall,"  which  is  the  only  non-patented  invention  that 
enjoys  a  permanent  copyright  on  extortion.  Prior  to  the 
"deadfall"  Pantalooned  Pike  were  free  to  trade  where  they 
pleased,  but  with  its  advent,  came  a  Hicks  currency  denom- 
inated "white-back,"  good  in  exchange  at  the  "deadfall" 
for  provisions.  Setton  Hicks  didn't  say  to  Pantalooned 
Pike,  "Here,  I've  stocked  a  room  full  of  cheap,  unwhole- 
some truck,  and  you  must  buy  from  me  or  lose  your  jobs." 
No,  gentle  reader,  he  didn't  say  so,  but  he  did  like  the 
conscripting  officer,  who  said:  "Well,  it's  a  free  country, 
be  drafted  or  shot,  just  as  you  please" ;  he  made  an  example 
of  one  or  two  Pike-ites  who  requested  a  hundred  per  cent, 
cash  equivalent  for  their  white-back.  After  that,  the  "dead- 
fall" ground  out  its  mission  of  giving  poor  food  for  good 
work  until,  in  the  logical  degeneration  of  things,  its  grind- 
ing had  ground  the  work  to  as  poor  a  quality  as  the  food. 
In  justice  to  Setton,  I  must  insist  that  Pantalooned  Pike 
was  not  forced  to  this;  the  white-back  could  always  be 
cashed  at  the  office — office  and  "deadfall" — for  from  sixty- 
two  to  sixty-eight  cents  on  the  dollar,  and  if  Pantalooned 


THE   JOKE.  93 

Pike  chose  rather  to  take  goods  (bads  would  ring  truer), 
instead  of  cash,  Pantalooned  Pike  was  free  so  to  do.  Dur- 
ing the  evolution  of  this  Hicksonian  plan,  some  other 
gentry  of  the  Capital  and  Progress  school  scented  Pike, 
and  almost  simultaneous  with  the  white-back  came  the 
saloons — dingy,  miserable  shacks,  constructed  out  of  Hick- 
sonian refuse  lumber,  where  liquefied  hell,  in  its  most  devil- 
ishly doped  and  damnably  drugged  garb,  was  dispensed  to 
Pike — Juvenile,  Beardless  and  Pantalooned  Pik^,  indiscrim- 
inately. These  gentry,  having  beforehand  figured  that  twenty 
cents'  worth  of  navy  tobacco  and  dried  peaches  boiled  and 
retailed  at  one  dollar  in  white-back — cashable  at  from  sixty- 
two  to  sixty-eight  cents — was  a  three-hundred-per-cent. 
investment  and  over,  thrived,  and  thrived  to  such  a  woeful 
extent  that  not  only  did  Pike  labor  sink  into  a  dreggy, 
drunken,  shiftless  slough,  but  the  "deadfall's"  receipts 
began  to  dwindle  at  an  alarming  pace.  Setton  tied  up  and 
undid  those  knotty  schemes  in  his  head  to  devise  a  check 
for  the  gentry.  He  had  much  rather  give  a  sack  of  black 
flour  than  sixty-two  to  sixty-eight  cents  for  white-back; 
but,  as  things  went  on,  the  gentry  were  unloading  tons 
of  white-back  on  him.  Pantalooned  Pike  seemed  to  have 
changed  its  diet  of  sow-belly  to  fusil  oil,  and  the  fate  of 
the  "deadfall"  hung  in  future's  vista,  a  dreadful  Gibraltar 
to  Hicksonian  Progress.  So,  after  a  deal  of  knotting  and 
unknotting,  Setton  sent  East  for  some  more  scions  of  the 
house  of  Hicks,  males  and  females,  and  before  their  tracks 
to  Pike  had  congealed,  the  gentry  had  an  anti-saloon  war 
on  hand  that  proved  much  more  unwieldly  and  unprofit- 
able than  the  white-back. 

It  Avas  at  that  stage  of  affairs  that  negro  labor,  following 
the  general  craze  of  saw-milling,  left  "ole  mammy  an' 
pappy"  to  steer  the  plow,  and  hied  them  to  Pike,  and — 


94  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

PROGRESS.  Setton  discerned  the  profit  to  be  accrued 
from  their  employment,  inasmuch  as  they  could  stand 
cattle  work  and  cattle  food,  and,  making  them  acquainted 
at  the  outset  with  the  fact  that  he  was  one  of  their  eman- 
cipators, and,  consequently,  guides,  philosophers  and 
friends,  he  soon  had  the  voting  strength  of  Pike  success- 
fully diluted  with  Sambos  and  Hickses.  The  discom- 
fiture and  rout  of  the  whisky  gentry  followed,  of  course, 
in  early  season,  and  once  more  Setton  and  the  "dead- 
fall" wore  an  expectant  air.  He  laid  in  an  extra  stock  of 
a  shade  worse  flour,  two  shades  worse  meat,  and  three 
shades  worse  parched  peas  for  coffee,  and  began  to  put  his 
wards,  the  colored  gentlemen,  through  a  course  of  Hick- 
sonian  Progress,  that  would  have  finally  accomplished  the 
end  of  all  Hicksonian  Progress,  had  it  not  been  nipped. 

Hicksonian  Progress  is  opium-like  in  its  effects.  Its 
victims,  who  whiff  its  balmy  odors  once,  are  forever  after 
done  for,  and,  as  Pantalooned  Pike  had  been  dosed  with 
a  pretty  strong  whiff,  they  clamored  for  more  white-back, 
more  deadfall,  more  logging,  more  anything,  to  bring  a 
scant  Saturday  pay-day  and  a  rioting  Saturday  night's 
gambling  debauch — something  Homespun  Pike  had  never 
dreamt  of  in  the  good,  sturdy  old  days  of  harvest  moons 
and  husking  bees.  Setton  turned  a  deaf  ear  at  first  to  the 
clamoring,  but  as  his  Hicks  importations  were  on  a  level 
with  him  for  business  acumen,  and  proved  very  unsatis- 
factory white-backers ;  and  as  Sambo  began  to  sniff  the  city 
from  afar,  and  catch  in^he  aeolian  breezes  from  its  slums 
and  scums  alluring  echoes  of  the  white  man's  virtue,  and 
drift  by  ones  and  twos  to  the  Capitol,  Setton  came  round 
with  the  magnanimity  so  characteristic  of  all  the  Hickses, 
and  reinstated  Pantalooned  Pike.  Nay,  he  did  more.  He 
insinuated  the  female  scions  of  the  house  of  Hicks  into 


THE  JOKE.  95 

Petticoated  Pike's  piety,  contributed  lumber  galore  for 
new  churches,  and  blossomed  out  in  the  glorious  hue  of 
Deacon.  His  fox-like  cunning  saw  the  immense  advantage 
to  be  secured  by  corraling  the  hysterical  religion  of  Petti- 
coated  Pike  and  playing  sweet  psalms  of  Profit  and 
Progress  in  revivals,  and  he  worked  upon  that  hysterical 
religion,  and  cut,  and  twisted,  and  fashioned  it  with  all  the 
thrift  of  a  housewife  recasting  pa's  sometime  breeches. 

Throughout,  Setton  kept  steadily  in  mind  the  Hick- 
sonian  legend :  "Fleece  'em  and  leave  'em,"  and  he  longed 
for  the  time  to  arrive  when  he  should  have  sucked  as  much 
blood  as  possible  from  Pike  and  returned  to  Hicksville. 
All  the  machinery  he  had  bought  was  "on  time,"  and  by 
the  "smooth  and  oily  art  to  speak  and  purpose  not,"  he 
paid  a  penny  now  and  then,  and  obtained  extension  after 
extension  from  his  creditors.  This  refutes  the  charge 
that  the  Hickses  are  sectional  in  their  fleecing,  for  Setton's 
creditors  were  in  Yankeedom,  and  Setton  had  them 
notched  on  his  shears,  cheek  by  cheek,  with  Pike  and 
Dixie-dom.  Yes,  sir;  it  not  only  refutes  the  charge  of 
sectionalism,  but  establishes  the  irrefutable  fact  that 
Hicks-ism,  wherever  its  origin,  location  and  destination, 
has  for  its  court  of  arms  a  pair  of  shears  rampant,  a  leech 
dormant,  on  a  field  of  hypocrisy  and  fraud.  You  can  take 
it  as  a  matter  of  undeniable  truth,  that  whatever  reads 
Profit  to  Hicks,  by  a  simple  application  of  acrostics,  spells 
Loss  to  the  other  fellow.  The  North,  the  East,  and  the 
West  have,  no  doubt,  their  Hickses,  but  as  I  write  not 
beyond  my  ken,  I  know  the  South  has,  and  whenever  I  hear 
a  Hicks  unburden  himself  on  Sambo  and  Judge  Lynch,  I 
see  Mr.  Leech  dormant  become  Mr.  Leech  couchant;  but 
I  anticipate.  To  the  rear,  then,  anticipations,  and  let  us 
resume  our  survey  of  this  individual  Hicks,-  and-  his  joke. 


96  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Bobby  Burns,  so  revered  by  the  Scots — who  waited,  by 
the  bye,  until  he  was  in  a  ragged  grave  to  show  their 
reverence — has  said  that  the  best-laid  plans  of  mice  and 
men,  (and  other  vermin),  gang  aft  aglee.  The  Hickw, 
then,  wise  and  all-seeing  as  they  are,  cannot  expect  exemp- 
tion from  the  adage,  and  upon  our  Hicks,  our  own  dear, 
Deacon  Hicks,  falls,  at  the  opening  of  this  tale,  the  harsh 
burden  of  illustration.  The  general  craze  for  sawmills  had 
brought,  in  its  train  of  blessings,  low  prices  for  lumber, 
and,  in  the  decline,  many  a  Hicks  learned  that  all  grapes 
are  not  sweet.  The  Deacon's  first  year  in  Pike  looked 
rosy ;  the  second,  sunflowery ;  the  third  saw  its  apex :  then 
came  the  toboggan,  and  two  b'heavies  went  down,  down, 
until  the  quotations  were  intensely  sombre.  Setton's 
creditors  hadn't  sold  him  machinery  on  any  two  b'heavy 
contingency,  and  they  suggested  from  time  to  time  that 
settlements  for  boilers,  planers,  gang-saws,  and  what 
not,  were  overdue  and  "waitin'  on  him."  White-back  was 
an  excellent  medium  in  Pike  to  sap  perseverance  out  of 
Pike-dom,  but  it  had  no  standing  elsewhere,  and  so  Setton's 
creditors  hammered  away  until,  little  as  Pike  thought  it, 
the  sawmill  tottered  before  repeated  duns.  The  Deacon's 
head,  small  as  it  was,  was  generously  stuffed  with  eel-like, 
knotty  schemes  that  had  enabled  him  to  squirm  out  of  many 
a  squeeze  of  yore,  and  he  held  repeated  consultations  with 
himself  and  Progress  as  to  how  to  still  pluck,  his  quota 
of  wool  from  the  burs.  /He  could  expect  nothing  from  the 
other  Hickses,  for  they" -were  all  behind,  more  or  less,  in 
their  shearing,  and,  at  best,  were  an  ungenerous  set  of 

houn Hickses.     He  could  expect  nothing  much  from 

lumber  until  it  should  have  become  too  late  to  employ  it 
for  any  other  purpose  than  repairing  his  mansions  in  the 
sky.  He  had  made  .his  "deadfall"  as  remunerative  as  it 


THE  JOKE.  97 

was  possible  to  make  it,  without  absolutely  giving  his 
hands  poison,  and  still  he  was  like  the  little  boy,  who,  upon 
inquiring,  "Bah,  bah,  black  sheep,  have  you  any  wool?" 
was  informed  that  while  the  black  sheep  had  three  bags 
full,  there  was  none  for  the  little  boy  who  cried  in  the  lane. 

Along  about  that  very  discouraging  stage,  Mat  Doyle 
reached  and  passed  the  mile-post  of  legal  discretion.  Mat 
Doyle,  from  a  hard-working,  unobtrusive,  Christian  lad, 
had  grown  up  into  the  same  sort  of  a  man.  He  had 
never  boarded  the  band-wagon  of  Hicksonian  Progress, 
but  had  stuck  to  old  Beck — followed  her  up  one  furrow 
and  down  another,  in  and  out,  day  after  day,  until,  having 
reached  maturity,  he  was  able  to  let  a  few,  hard-working 
tenants  divide  his  labor,  and  indulge  himself  in  reading 
spells  that,  while  not  as  exciting  as  Saturday-night  gam- 
bling sprees,  were  infinitely  of  more  benefit.  Mat  Doyle  was 
no  "mommer's  boy,"  however ;  don't  think  it !  He  was 
as  free  from  any  milk-and-toast  taint  as  the  Ott  outfit  were 
free  from  real  manhood,  and  though  a  recluse  amongst 
the  women,  and  a  quiet  comrade  amongst  all  the  men, 
except  his  life-long  friend  Dud,  he  enjoyed  the  world  and 
its  contents  as  well  and  as  sensibly  as  any  self-reliant, 
healthy-minded  gentleman  could. 

Mat  was  a  factor  in  Pike,  young  as  he  was.  Not  a 
political  factor,  for  he  looked  on  politics  as  so  much  jockey- 
ism.  Neither  a  religious  factor,  for  he  simply  lived  Christ 
instead  of  shouting  and  screeching  Him.  Nor  a  Pro- 
gressive factor,  for  he  managed  the  income  and  outgo  of 
the  Doyle  farm  on  a  very  unprogressive  basis,  to  wit,  cash 
both  ways.  But  he  was  just  a  plain  factor,  unique  to  Pike 
in  his  thrift,  and  dear  to  Pike  in  his  probity.  When  he 
sat  on  the  jury  neither  Bench  nor  Bar  asked  him  the  usual 
stereotyped  questions ;  they  accepted  him,  and  wished  men- 


gB  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

tally  that  the  other  eleven  were  like  him.  When,  as  was 
very  seldom  the  case,  he  entered  the  witness-box,  he  was 
not  sworn,  for  some  lawyer  was  sure  to  rise  and  move  that 
the  formality  be  dispensed  with  in  Mat's  case.  Such  a 
record  at  twenty-five  is,  indeed,  enviable — enviable  at  any 
age;  but  there  are  more  Mat  Doyles  than  one  amongst  us. 
After  we  have  done  fawning  on  Hicksonian  Progress,  we 
will  find  theni  out  and  discover  that,  like  good  wine,  they 
have  improved  with  the  keeping.  It  may  not  be  inap- 
propriate to  suggest,  in  passing,  that  we  quit  our  nonsen- 
sical fawning  and  find  the  Doyleses  out  before  there  is 
not  enough  timber  left  to  build  them  a  shack. 

Our  friend,  the  Deacon,  had  not  held  many  consulta- 
tions with  himself  and  Progress  before  Mat  became  a 
factor  there,  too. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  the  definition  of  a  farm  in 
Dixie  is  "a  body  of  land  entirely  covered  by  a  mortgage." 
The  Doyle  farm  was  the  rule-proving  exception.  It  was 
not  only  free  from  debt,  but  had.  of  recent  years,  carried 
a  modest  insurance,  for  Mat  considered  that  a  place  worth 
calling  "home"  was  well  worth  insuring.  Towards  Mat's 
home  the  Deacon's  shears  turned  with  the  precision  of  a 
compass-needle,  and  forthwith  the  Deacon  began  to  whet 
the  edges  of  the  shears,  and  forthwith  Mr.  Leech  (now 
couchant),  took  a  firmer  grip  on  the  field  of  hyprocrisy 
and  fraud.  Mat  must  be  cultivated,  and  Setton  wisely 
kenned  that  a  man  wjio  had  sense  enough  to  maintain 
an  insured  farm  must  Tae  cultivated  with  hot-house  deli- 
cacy. 

Therefore,  the  Deacon,  best  of  all,  discerns  and  enjoys 
the  joke. 

When  he  railroaded  Miss  Hennon  in  on  Pike  he  did 
so  simply  because  she  underbid  the  rest,  and  with  careful 


THE  JOKE.    .  99 

Hicksonian  manipulation,  the  five  dollars  difference 
between  her  bid  and  the  next  highest  could  find  a  per- 
manent lodging  in  the  sawmill  safe  on  various  accounts 
of  school  furniture,  charts,  and  so  forth.  But  when 
Mother  Doyle  came  in  suddenly  upon  him  with  an  inquiry 
as  to  Miss  Hennon's  address,  and  inadvertently  let  fall  her 
little  plan,  the  holy  man  instantly  thought  of  his  little 
plan,  and  followed  up  Mother  Doyle's  letter  with  one  eulo- 
gistic of  the  Doyles,  from  Mother  Doyle  to  old  Ball,  the 
hunter.  The  result  was  Miss  Hennon  in  person — unex- 
pected. Pike  allowed  that  Mat,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  veered  from  the  truth  about  coming  to  meet  that 
cutter,  and,  my,  my,  my,  how  the  good  Deacon  enjoyed 
the  joke.  Aside  from  its  being  just  an  everyday  joke, 
you  and  I  may  not  see  any  reason  to  split  our  sides  over 
it,  but  the  Deacon,  oh,  my!  He  really  couldn't  contain 
himself — the  point  of  the  joke  was  so  exceedingly  keen. 
Some  of  us  may  in  time  see  the  point  also,  but,  at  present, 
neither  Pike,  nor  you,  or  I,  can  enjoy  it  with  the  zest  of 
our  meek  friend.  He  was  so  wrapped  up  in  its  blissful  con- 
templation that  he  failed  to  observe  the  village  preacher 
advancing  towards  the  office.  When  he  did  so,  he  hastUy 
jumped  to  his  desk,  and  in  a  jiffy  was  poring  over  the 
open  pages  of  his  Bible,  and  when  the  parson  tried  the 
knob,  Hicks,  stifling  a  last  chuckle,  unlocked  the  door  and 
said,  meekly: 

"Come  in,  parson;  was  just  preparing  to  close  up  for 
— day,  and  continue — chapter  at — sanctuary." 

The  Deacon  boarded  in  the  parsonage  —  kept  "bach," 
as  we  unholy  scamps  would  say — though  he  always  applied 
the  more  fitting  term  of  "sanctuary"  to  his  apartments. 

"Yes,  parson,"  he  continued,  (he  always  bit  and  chewed 
his  words  mightily,  and  seemed,  like  stenographers,  to 


IOO  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

have  discarded  articles  and  pronouns),  "when — Spirit 
moves  me — these  times — feel  out  of  place  in — busy  mart 
— wish  to  seek  seclusion  with — Book." 

The  parson  glanced  at  the  Book  and  saw  it  was  open 
at  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  If  he  could  have  discerned 
the  point  of  that  joke  with  the  Deacon's  relish,  he  would 
have  possibly  felt  staggered  at  the  proximity  of  that 
sermon  to  that  joke. 


: 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  PEDRO/' 

IT  GEIEVES  me  sincerely  to  descend  from  the  lowly 
Deacon  to  "Pedro";  yet  I  am  logical  or  nothing,  and  the 
descent  must  be  made:  it  follows  as  naturally  as  reaching 
the  ground  by  the  easy  and  acrobatic  feat  of  tumbling 
from  a  log.  "Pedro"  is  as  much  a  product,  effect,  result 
of  Hicksism — political  and  commercial  Hicksism — as  bad 
odors  are  of  filth,  or  malaria,  or  stagnation,  or  maggots 
of  decay,  or  any  other  noxious  germination  of  a  fetid 
growth.  If  political  and  commercial  Hicksism  had  never 
tampered  with  Sambo,  this  chapter  on  "Pedro,"  and,  in 
fact,  this  tale  of  Judge  Lynch,  would  have  never  been 
inflicted  on  a  proverbially  patient  public.  Judge  Lynch 
would  have  held  court  so  seldom  as  not  to  even  warrant 
a  Whittier  poetic  outburst,  much  less  a  Ward-Howe  erup- 
tion, and  the  "bad  negro,"  so  far  from  being  a  fixture, 
and,  I  fear,  a  perpetual  plague,  would  have  been  nigh  as 
great  a  rarity  as  a  setting  of  ostrich  eggs — would  have 
merely  been  an  occasionally  inevitable,  but  not  necessarily 
dangerous,  obstacle  in  the  path  of  a  fast-improving  race. 

"Pedro"  once  had  a  Christian  name  and  a  civilized  sur- 
name, but  as  he  has  so  long  been  known  in  Pike,  on  the 
railroad,  in  the  city,  before  the  police  judges,  and  on  the 
rock  pile,  as  "Pedro,"  his  original  cognomen  would  neces- 
sitate an  unabridged  index  whenever  used  before  his- 
acquaintances;  and  as  I  am  not  writing  for  those  pro- 

[101] 


IO2  MATTHEW  DOYLE. 

/ 

vincial  folks,  who  were  born,  raised  and  warped  in  one 
township,  and  one  set  of  ideas,  "Pedro"  will  be  readily 
recognized. 

"Pedro's"  first  peep  at  daylight  was  through  the 
chinks  of  an  humble  cabin  — plantation  cabin  —  some 
twenty  miles  from  Pike,  or,  to  be  exact,  twenty  miles  from 
the  site  of  future  Pike,  for  reconstruction  had  not  then 
brought  its  reorganization  of  post-offices  and  consequent 
influx  of  Hicksonian  postmasters. 

"Pedro's"  first  squawk  was  indicative  of  another  sub- 
stantial item  to  marster's  assets.  "Pedro's"  first  medical 
attention  resulted  in  the  (private)  announcement  to 
marster,  that  if  he  lived  through  March  he  would  be  a 
valuable  slave,  as  he  had  some  mulatto  in  him — this,  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  "Pedro's"  mammy  and  pappy 
were  decided — very — Ethiopianic  brunettes. 

"Pedro"  did  live  through  March — in  fact,  several  of 
them — when  of  a  sudden,  so  it  seemed  to  "Pedro"  and 
the  other  pickaninnies,  whose  geographical  knowledge 
stopped  at  marster's  landing,  marster  and  young  marster 
rode  down  the  wide  drive  in  dazzling  gray  clothes,  boots 
shining  with  "b'ars  ile,"  and  powerful  long  swords  clink- 
ing and  clashing.  From  that  date  "Pedro"  existed  through 
some  very  checkered  years — a  quartet  of  them — in  which 
he  and  mammy  and  pappy  were  not  infrequently  the 
checkers.  Trying  times  came  over  the  plantation,  and 
often  and  often,  especially  along  towards  the  last, 
"Pedro's"  mammy  and  pappy,  and  "Pedro"  himself,  saw 
times  more  trying  in  their  humble  sphere  than  did  missus 
and  the  little  missuses  up  at  the  great  house.  Before  the 
dazzling  gray  clothes  and  all  that,  mammy  and  pappy 
and  "Pedro"  never  knew  what  sleeping  on  an  empty 
stomach  felt  like,  but  afterwards  many  and  many  the 


"  PEDRO."  IO3 

night  that  "Pedro"  piled  abed  hungry.  Did  he  cry? 
Complain?  Regret?  Repine?  Sulk?  Sniffle?  Mouth? 
Murmur?  Not  he.  He  hadn't  lost  his  Christian  name 
and  civilized  surname  then,  and  so,  when  mammy  tucked 
him  away  supperless,  and  then  knelt  down  and  prayed  in 
her  poor,  uneducated  way  for  marster's  and  young 
marster's  safe  return,  and  prayed  for  pappy,  who  was  on 
guard  out  on  the  turnpike,  protecting  missus  and  the  little 
missuses,  and  prayed  that  missus  and  the  little  missuses 
might  never  go  to  bed  hungry,  "Pedro"  knew  that  the 
supper  that  used  to  be  his  had  gone  to  help  out  its  mite 
up  at  the  great  house.  Then,  indeed,  would  a  tear  glisten 
tremblingly  and  drop  from  "Pedro's"  round,  wide-open 
eyes,  but  it  was  no  tear  of  complaint;  no,  no,  my  uncon- 
verted friend,  it  was  a  tear  of  poor,  slavish,  uneducated 
happiness  to  know  that  his  mite  of  a  supper  could  help 
the  "dear  missus"  and  the  'lubly  li'l  missuses";  as  honest 
a  tear  as  ever  was  shed,  cross  or  no  cross,  Christ  or  no 
Christ,  soul  or  no  soul!  How  could  it  be  other  than 
honest  ?  "Pedro,"  in  his  short  pickaninny  career,  had 
never  heard  mammy  and  pappy  mention  marster  as  other  . 
than  the  one  who  fed,  clothed  and  protected  them ;  fur-  ' 
nished  them  medicine;  built  them  a  meeting  house; 
brought  them  their  share  of  good  things  from  New 
Orleans;  and,  greatest  of  all,  turned  the  plantation  over 
to  them  from  Christmas  eve  to  New  Year's  Day,  inclusive 
and  beyond.  Naturally  enough,  therefore,  did  "Pedro" 
follow  mammy  and  pappy's  example  in  those  supperless 
days,  and  show  that  gratitude  was  not  indigenous  to  white 
soil,  and  that  cotton  eyes  had  their  tear  springs  behind 
them  to  enrich  that  black  soil  of  gratefulness. 

Time  and  time  again  were  mammy  and  pappy   and 
"Pedro"  bundled  off  by  blue  clothes  and  bundled  back  by 


104  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

gray  clothes,  and  throughout  it  all  their  uppermost 
thoughts  and  best  endeavors  were  for  missus  and  the 
little  missuses'  weal. 

That  in  sixty.  Now  what?  "Huh!"  as  Mat  Doyle 
would  emphasize. 

I  read  scarce  a  year  ago — yea,  even  in  the  year  of  war 
for  humanity's  sake — that  now  our  white  women  in  Dixie 
were  not  safe  beyond  the  range  of  their  men  folks'  Win- 
chesters, and  I  thought,  "Great  God!  can  this  be  true — 
can  it  be  even  barely  true!"  To  think  of  those  awful 
days  of  sixty,  when  the  poor,  uneducated  black  slave  held 
the  gun  in  his  hands  for  our  white  women's  protection — 
the  very  gun  his  marster's  laws  had  forbidden  him  owner- 
ship of  in  time  of  peace.  To  think  of  little  "Pedro's" 
supper  carried  up  to  the  great  house  by  the  loving  hands 
of  mammy — God  bless  her!  I've  nursed  at  her  breast — 
and  then  to  read  that  every  black  man  stands  to-day  a 
black  brute,  a  pall  over  the  lives  he  once  protected.  Can. 
it  be  so  ?  No,  'tis  not  as  bad  by  half  as  the  writer  of  that 
exaggeration  would  have  us  believe,  but  who  can  say  how 
long  before  it  shall  have  become  a  stubborn,  awful  fact? 
"Who  can  say?  Hicksism,  bigotry  and  intolerance  have 
hastened  its  maturity,  even  as  the  quick  growth  of  the 
toad-stool;  but  will  Hicksism,  bigotry  and  intolerance 
survive  their  toad-stool  like  longevity?  (Pardon  the  bull). 
Will  they  cling  on  and  sap,  and  sap,  and  sap  until  what 
intolerance  is  pleased  tx>  call  a  "problem"  ceases  by  the 
snuffing  solution?  An"Aedepus  for  an  answer. 

But  "Pedro,"  meanwhile  ?  Well,  we'll  continue,  and  not 
"progress"  any  more,  as  Dooley  would  opine,  and  please 
to  bear  in  mind,  as  7  opine,  that  I  am  not  tapping  my 
imaginative  tank  to  present  "Pedro"  on  this  canvas — not 
by  a  jugfull.  If  anything,  I  will  be  partial  to  "Pedro" 


"  PEDRO."  105 

in  his  degenerating  developments,  because,  for  the  life 
of  me,  try  as  I  will,  (for  present  purposes),  I  can't  forget 
the  time  his  mammy  and  pappy  held  their  tireless  and 
supperless  vigils  for  our  mammies  and  pappies — peace 
and  eternal  happiness  to  all  of  them.  So  "Pedro,"  then. 

Marster  and  young  marster  came  back  at  last,  no  longer 
marster  and  young  marster — Appomattox  had  stricken  the 
title  from  liberty's  vocabulary.  Yes,  they  came  back — 
afoot ;  fine  horses  long  since  gone :  Yes,  they  came  back — 
boots  muddy,  cracked  and  worn;  "bar's  ile"  long  since 
gone:  Yes,  they  came  back — ragged:  ragged,  did  I  say? 
Pretty  nigh  it;  dazzling  gray  clothes  bespattered  by  the 
tearing  tempests  of  war's  elements;  brass  buttons,  fine 
sashes,  buckskin  gauntlets  long  since  gone :  Yes,  they  came 
back  to  fields  sown  in  blood  and  plowed  by  shell,  and 
reaped  with  the  rake  of  a  lurid  hell;  to  homes  that  now 
stood,  sorrow  to  tell — a  toll  from  the  roll  of  a  fun'ral  bell : 
Yes,  they  came  back,  weary  as  only  the  wrecked,  dreary 
as  only  the  defeated  can  be,  and  they  pushed  open  the 
big  gate,  now  rotting,  and  they  walked  up  the  wide  drive, 
now  weed-grown,  and  they  came,  footsore  and  heartsick, 
before  the  portals  of  the  great  house,  now  gaunt — and 
there,  surrounding  missus  and  the  little  missuses,  grouped 
about  all  they  loved  best  on  earth,  were  old  Dinah,  Aunt 
Hannah,  Tilda,  Uncle  Lige,  Gabe,  Eef,  Big  John,  Little 
John,  and  Mammy,  and  Pappy,  and  cotton-eyed  "Pedro" 
peeping  out  from  behid  mammy's  skirt.  Take  away !  Take 
away  your  Reubens',  your  Raphaels',  your  Rembrandts', 
your  Millais',  your  Angelo's — take  them  all  away!  Take 
away  your  rich  gilt  frames,  with  their  costly  carved  oak 
leaves  and  flutings — take  them  all  away !  Carry  me  back 
to  that  picture  of  what  was  once  marster  and  young 
marster,  missus  and  the  little  missuses  in  loving  embrace, 


106  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

and  the  frame  that  encased  it !  "The  boast  of  heraldry 
and  the  pomp  of  power"  no  longer  dazzled  the  uniforms 
and  burnished  the  swords  of  marster  and  young  marster; 
the  glare  of  ballrooms  and  the  glitter  of  chandeliers  no 
longer  wooed  the  velvet  blush  on  missus'  and  the  little 
missuses'  cheeks;  but  in  that  frame  beat  hearts  as  true 
as  any  steel  and  stout  as  any  oak;  and,  though  now  Mag- 
nanimity had  said :  "Let  us  have  peace,"  and  thereby  that 
group  were  freed — men,  yet  they  were  more — they  were 
friends ! 

But  time  and  tide  go  on  in  seconds  and  minutes,  as 
well  as  years  and  centuries,  and  marster  cleared  his  throat 
and  bid  the  lips  that  had  stiffened  at  Shiloh,  be  firm. 
Black  hands  were  thrust  forward  and  grasped;  howdy 
after  howdy  broke  the  sobs  of  missus  and  the  little  miss- 
uses, and,  at  last  welled  up  the  words:  "God  bless  yoo, 
marster,  we'll  neber  leab  yoo." 

"Friends,"  he  responded,  thickly,  raising  his  hand  gently 
for  attention;  "friends,  don't  call  me  marster  any  longer. 
The  war  is  over.  You  are  free — free  to  go  as  citizens.  All 
I  have  is  swept  away ;  not  even  the  ground  I  stand  upon  is 
mine.  The  cabins  you  sleep  in  are  no  more  mine  than 
yours.  I  must  go  to  work  for  my  family,  and,  though  we 
would  keep  each  and  every  one  of  you  with  us  if  we 
could,  we  can't  do  it.  We  have  nothing  to  give  you:  we 
have  nothing  for  ourselves,  and  to  keep  you  with  us  would 
invite  starvation  upon/us  all.  The  world  lies  before  you, 
as  it  does  before  us;  we  must  go  out  into  it  alike.  Eest 
assured,  all  of  you,  that  though  we  must  go  our  separate 
ways,  and  say  good-by  for  to-day — rest  assured,  my 
friends,  that  whenever  I  have  a  meal's  victuals  for  my 
loved  ones,  you  will  not  go  hungry.  We  must  all  make 


"  PEDRO.  107 

good  citizens — you  the  same  as  I ;  you  bury  your  shackles, 
I  my  sword,  and  we  take  up  the  plow,  each  for  himself." 

Thus  they  parted,  both  to  look  anew  a  problem  in  the 
face;  both  free  and  equal  before  the  law;  both  poor;  both 
at  sea;  both  friends.  A  bad  situation,  true  enough,  and 
not  so  bad,  true  enough,  and  the  last  two  words,  both 
friends,  were  the  saving  clause.  Both  friends.  Study  it 
a  moment.  Both  friends.  Ponder  it  a  moment.  Both 
friends.  Lay  down  this  page  a  moment, — Judge  Lynch  can 
adjourn  court  while  you  consider  it. 

What  would  two  sets  of  people  on  a  perfectly  friendly 
basis  have  done  with  such  a  problem  if  left  to  themselves? 
Solve  it,  or  friendship  is  not  the  omnipotent  exotic  I  take 
it  to  be.  Solve  it  unconditionally.  But  it  is  idle  to  spec- 
ulate on  what  might  have  been  done,  and  irrelevant  to 
"Pedro,"  inasmuch  as  we  have  to  deal  with  what  was  done, 
is  done  (but  I  trust  not,  shall  ever  be  done,  Amen!). 

The  group  dispersed.  Marster's  folks  went  to  the  city, 
marster  to  renew  acquaintance  with  his  profession,  from 
which  years  of  luxury  had  estranged  him.  Then  there 
appeared  in  the  horizon  a  speck.  Like  all  other  incipient 
storm-clouds,  it  was  small — no  larger  than  a  carpet-bag; 
and,  in  fact,  as  its  proportions  became  defined,  it  was 
a  carpet-bag.  Like  all  other  evil  storm-clouds,  it  quickly 
gathered  other  carpet-bags,  until  the  South  was  like  unto 
a  plague-stricken  Egypt.  A  land  but  lately  bayonet-ridden 
was  now  carpet-bag  deluged,  and  the  latter  will  be  by  far 
the  worst  calamity.  Hicksism  was  a  condition.  The  high- 
ways and  byways,  and  all  the  other  ways,  were  infested 
with  gentry  who,  not  being  able  to  accumulate  more  than 
a  carpet-bag  full  of  chattels  North,  were  obviously  com- 
petent to  do  so  South. 

Then,  indeed,  did  the  f  reedman  hear  some  truths.    Then, 


108  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

indeed,  did  political  Hicksism  show  him  what  should  be 
his  true  status,  i.  e.,  a  recumbent  attitude  upon  a  hundred- 
dollar  sofa  in  the  bankrupt  state's  capitol.  Then,  indeed, 
were  marster's  folks  held  up  to  him  as  his  worst  and  most 
implacable  enemies.  Then,  indeed,  was  it  demonstrated  to 
him  that  Nature  had  accomplished  for  the  Ethiopian  by 
a  partisan  vote  what  she  hasn't  yet  completed  for  the 
Caucasian  by  evolution.  Then,  indeed,  did  his  new-found 
mentors  whisper  boss  in  his  ear,  ballot  in  his  skull,  and 
bullet  in  his  heart.  What  happened?  When  power  is 
the  highest  aim  of  the  white  man's  game;  when  we  fall 
every  day,  prone  and  prostrate  before  the  gewgaws  of 
garishness,  is  it  inexplicable  that  "Pedro's"  people  wavered  ? 

Is  it  contrary  to  mathematics  that  an  addition  of  two 
and  two  will  result  in  the  sum  of  four?  Well,  "Pedro" 
is  helping  his  little  mite  to  produce  the  resultant  sum — 
helping  for  woe  just  as  his  supper  used  to  help  for  weal; 
and  Hicksism  can  thank  itself  and  its  teachings  that  hemp 
is  being  used,  perforce,  as  a  counter  irritant. 

After  the  carpet-bags  had  permeated  the  erstwhile  poor 
but  placid  problem,  "Pedro"  began  to  absorb  the  imported 
doctrine  with  sponge-like  avidity.  "Pedro"  being  by 
genus  imitative,  was  correlatively  absorbent.  He  scam- 
pered into  the  city — not  with  any  idea  of  working,  for 
Hicksism  had  tojd  him  that,  as  a  ward  of  the  nation,  he 
needn't  work.  Consequently,  he  neglected  the  faculties 
necessary  to  industry  aad  improved  those  essential  to  idle- 
ness. 

He  was  young  then,  and  bright,  too;  quick  to  see  and 
quicker  to  note.  He  saw  that  marster  no  longer  went 
down  into  a  well-filled  wallet — carpet-bags  were  fat 
instead.  He  swung  to  the  latter.  "Pedro"  experienced 


"  PEDRO."  109 

some  halcyon  years  thereabouts.  Vice  was  unrolled  and 
displayed  before  him  in  garbs,  and  shapes,  and  patterns 
that  would  turn  a  much  paler  lad,  let  alone  one  of  "Pedro's" 
hue.  Virtue  was  as  undisplayable  as  marster's  lean  wallet ; 
vice  as  full  of  promise  as  the  carpet-bags.  He  swung  to 
the  latter. 

Chopping  weeds  in  the  cotton  was  hot  work  in  the  sun ; 
rolling  dice  in  the  warehouse  was  lucrative  sport  in  the 
shade.  He  swung  to  the  latter.  "Totin"  wood  to  the 
kitchen  was  mighty  poor  fun  by  the  side  of  seven-up  behind 
a  cotton  bale.  He  swung  to  the  latter.  And  so  on  down 
the  list.  At  ten,  as  a  "kid,"  "Pedro"  knew  the  safest 
corners  of  all  the  warehouses.  At  fifteen,  as  a  bootblack, 
he  knew  which  bar-rooms  did  the  biggest  business.  At 
twenty,  as  a  procurer,  he  knew  exactly  where  to  locate 
the  best-looking  yellow  girls.  At  twenty-five,  as  a  roust- 
about, he  knew  every  pilot  on  the  river  and  every  engineer 
on  the  road.  At  thirty,  as  a  jailbird,  he  knew  every  chain- 
gang  from  St.  Louis  to  New  Orleans,  and  at  thirty-five,  as 
a  vagabond,  we  find  him  in  Pike,  (his  stand-by  haunt 
during  a  blow-over),  an  adept  in  every  black  art,  and  a 
stranger  to  the  rudimentary  elements  of  human  decency. 
Long  years  of  vice  have  made  him  a  villain:  long  years 
of  rascality,  a  rogue:  long  years  of  dissipation,  a  drunk- 
ard :  long  years  of  white  vice  example,  a  menace  to  female 
virtue,  and  long  and  notorious  proficiency  in  a  game  known 
as  "Cinch,"  "Fifty-two,"  "Set-back,"  "High  Five,"  but 
most  commonly,  "Pedro,"  has  given  him  a  soubriquet  that 
carries  with  it  a  kaleidoscope  of  deviltry. 

Thus  "Pedro."  He  has  been  sojourning  in  Pike  some 
twelve  months,  having  suddenly  left  St.  Louis  a  year 
before,  and  he  will  sojourn  in  Pike  until  luck,  love  or 


IIO  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

laxity  lure  him  citywards.  Meanwhile,  Bill  Ott,  Andy 
Dodd  and  Company  will  acquire  all  of  "Pedro's"  latest 
points  on  pasteboards,  and,  perchance,  acquire  a  moiety  of 
the  cash  which  caused  that  gentleman's  abrupt  abandon- 
ment of  the  Missouri  metropolis  . 


CHAPTER  X. 

JUDGE  LYNCH  AS  A  THEORY. 

"Bra  LYXCHIX'  in  Clay  County,"  remarked  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil,  glancing  over  his  specs  and  holding  his  news- 
paper nearer  the  lamp. 

They  were  all  sitting  around  on  counters,  kegs  and 
cracker-boxes  in  Uncle  Alec  McNeil's  one  evening  late  in 
the  fall.  When  I  say  they,  Pantalooned  Pike  is,  of  course, 
meant,  to  wit,  that  male  portion  of  Pike  who  have  nothing 
to  do  but  improve  their  conversational  accomplishments. 
To  these  may  be  added  the  mill  hands — Setton  Hicks'  mill 
hands,  and  the  mill  hands  from  across  the  mountain,  the 
evening  being  Saturday.  Included,  also,  were  Mat  Doyle 
and  Dud  Trenome.  Dud  had  come  in  for  some  small 
trading  and  had  stopped  by  Mat's  (stopped  by,  not  in)  — 
had  left  his  pony  there,  and  the  two  had  footed  it  down. 
Lastly,  Deacon  Hicks  had  just  stepped  in  for  a  package 
of  oatmeal,,  when  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  made  the  above 
remark. 

So  it  may  truthfully  be  said  that  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
had  a  large  and  distinguished  audience,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  wide  world  that  tickled  the  old  merchant 
more.  While  we  are  aware,  from  his  own  confidential 
statement  to  "Dear,"  that  his  educational  abilities  barely 
permitted. him  to  sign  his  name  and  read  it,  yet  that  was 
no  bar  whatever  to  his  dispensing  the  news.  All  he 
needed  were  good  sensational  headlines,  and  he  could 

Tin] 


112  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

improvise  the  rest,  and,  inasmuch  as  his  listeners  during 
working  hours  and  between  trains,  were  Pantalooned  Pike, 
it  didn't  matter  much  whether  his  improvisations  were 
grammatically,  orthographically,  or  historically  correct 
or  not;  he  would  pore  over  his  paper  and  give  the  items 
out  in  as  fantastically  worded  a  garb  as  a  magazine  poet 
would  wish.  Meanwhile,  those  of  Pantalooned  Pike  who 
weren't  filching  sundry  articles  of  commerce,  lounged  in 
a  semi-somnolent  state,  and  all  was  well. 

You  are  not  to  presume,  however,  that  on  such  occa- 
sions Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  the  least  bit  unconscious  of 
the  filching.  He  noted  every  piece  of  tobacco  or  candy, 
every  can  of  sardines,  every  nail  that  was  taken,  and  also 
noted  the  taker,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  in  the  end  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil  wasn't  the  loser.  A  good  many  storekeepers 
prefer  to  raise  a  fuss  over  such  things,  and  thereby  lose 
trade,  for  it  is  a  self-evident  axiom,  that  if  you  catch  a 
fellow  red-handed  and  then  hurt  his  feelings,  he'll  quit 
trading  with  you.  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  believed  in  catch- 
ing them  red-handed,  or  in  any  other  feasible  fashion,  but 
he  respected  their  feelings,  and  went  at  their  pocketbooks 
in  future  dealings ;  or,  if  they  didn't  have  any  pocketbooks 
to  go  at,  he  went  after  others  who  did,  and  in  a  quiet  way 
evened  it  up  nicety. 

Frequently  Mother  Doyle  had  had  to  pay  for  a  piece  of 
"star"  which  one  of  the  Ott's  had  surreptitiously  slipped 
in  his  shirt  bosom  the  day  before;  but  so  long  as  Mother 
Doyle  was  ignorant  of  it,  she  wasn't  hurt.  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil  got  his  pay  for  the  "star"  and  he  wasn't  hurt; 
and  the  filching  Ott  got  the  "star"  and  he  wasn't  hurt; 
and  I'm  confident  that  however  much  moralists  may  differ 
from  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  on  the  ethics  of  the  transaction^ 


JUDGE   LYNCH   AS  A  THEORY.  113 

arithmeticians  will  be  unanimous  that  the  rule  of  three 
couldn't  have  worked  it  better. 

Uncle  Alec  McNeil  was  always  immensely  intent  on  his 
paper  during  these  readings,  both  to  give  the  filcher  full 
swing  and  to  impress  those  who  were  too  lazy  to  filch,  with 
his  erudition.  The  evening  in  question  was  extraordin- 
arily propitious  in  both  respects.  The  crowd  was  large, 
and  Mat,  Dud  and  Hicks  were  present — Pike's  trium- 
virate of  scholars. 

"Yes,  sir,  big  lynchin',  in  Clay — my,  my !"  and  that's  as 
far  as  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  ventured.  He  was  entirely  too 
politic  to  take  a  stand  on  anything  susceptible  of  a  divi- 
sion, which,  of  course,  didn't  include  the  absurdly,  ridic- 
ulously low  prices  of  his  merchandise.  His  "my,  my !" 
might  have  meant  "my,  my !  how  terrible !"  or,  "my,  my ! 
how  glorious !"  for  all  any  one  could  tell.  Thp  look  on  his 
face,  the  inflection  of  his  voice,  were  just  as  unenlight- 
ening  as  the  monosyllables  he  uttered,  so  the  crowd  waited 
for  particulars. 

"Big  lynchin'  in  Clay — my " 

"Uncle  Alec  McNeil,  you  said  that  before.  Less  hear 
the  balance;  must  er  been  a  h — I  of  a  big  lynchin'  to 
call  it  over  three  times." 

Everybody  except  Hicks  and  Mat  roared  at  Wicked 
Bill's  sally.  Hicks  scowled;  Mat  didn't. 

"Well,  sir;  well,  sir,  um — lessee,"  mused  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil  running  his  eye  up  and  down  the  whole  length 
of  the  paper,  though,  in  fact,  the  article  was  scarcely  a 
quarter-column. 

"Lessee :  Big  lynchin' — I  believe  you  said  you'd  heard 
that  once  before,  Bill." 

Everybody  roared  again,  and  the  filchin  got  in  a  little 


114  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

side  work,  while  Uncle  Alec  McXeil,  though  ostensibly 
doubled  up  with  mirth,  took  copious  mental  notes  thereon. 

"Yee,  hee !"  he  panted,  finally  untying  himself  and 
wiping  his  specs ;  "Well,  we'll  try  it  agin.  'Scuse  me,  Bill 
— I — I — I  didn't  knc*v  you  were  in  here ;  'clare  to  goodness 
I  jes  happened  to  look  up  an'  see  you,  an'  I — I — I  jes 
thought,  Billy,  you'd  like  to  hear  it — hee,  hey,  ha,  -ha,  ha ! 
yee,  ha,  ha,  ha !"  and  once  more  the  roaring  began,  with 
Uncle  Alec  McXeil  far  in  the  van  and  apparently  in  a 
fair  way  to  choke  himself  to  death. 

"Whee,  hey !"  he  panted,  once  more  untwisting  him- 
self and  shaking  the  paper  out,  "hee-ay,  now  boys,  less 
get  at  it ;  an'  listen  right  close,  Billy,  I  don't  want  to  have 
to  read  it  over  agin:  'Clay  County,  the  scene  of  a  bloody 
tradegy — £"emmense  mob  lynches  a  friend — no,  fiend — um, 
hum.  Smithton,  November  twentieth :  A  nigger  named 
Mose  Jones  assaulted  Mrs.  John  Delanny — how  do  you 
call  that,  Mat,  Delanny  or  De?a/?ey — well,  we'll  jes  let  it  go 
either  way — assaulted  Mrs.  Delanny  last  night,  and  imme- 
jiately  fleed  the — the " 

"Coop,"  suggested  Bill. 

"Yes,  coop'll  do.  A  mob  soon  gathered  in  hot  pursuit 
and,  um — in  hot  pursuit,  an'  they  caught  Mose  'long  t'rds 
nine  o'clock,  an'  strung  him  up.  Great  excitement  pree- 
vails,  an'  the  sheriff  is  a-summonin'  a — a — poss."  All  of 
which,  though  not  quite  the  wording  of  the  article,  was 
the  gist. 

"Sheriff  gatherin*  a  what  ?"  Dud  asked,  mischievously. 

"Why,  a  crowd  o'  men,"  quickly  answered  Uncle  Alec 
McXeil,  who  wasn't  to  be  caught  on  posse. 

"What  the  h — 1  does  he  want  with  'em?  They  done 
caught  the  nigger,"  commented  Wicked  Bill. 

<rWants  'em  to  preserve  order,  Billy;  to  preserve  order. 


JUDGE   LYNCH   AS   A   THEORY.  115 

The  paper  says  there's  great  excitement.  Great  excite- 
ment preevails"  the  old  man  quoted. 

"Where  was  the  sheriff  when  Mose  went  up?"  Dud 
inquired,  midst  a  general  laugh. 

"It  don't  say,  my  son,  it  don't  say;  as  it  wasn't  any- 
where near  primary  time  1  sca'cely  reckon  he  was  about." 

"'Oh,  he'll  be  thar  at  the  inquest,"  declared  Bill. 

"'Inquest !"  echoed  Andy,  who  would  take  Bill  seriously ; 
"inquest  over  a  dam  dead  nigger?" 

"Why,  sir,  if  truth  was  known,  sir,  which  't  isn't  in  these 
parts,"  snapped  Hicks,  "sheriff'd  be  found  with  mob — 
that's  where  he  was,  sir,  yes,  sir;  that's  precisely  where  he 
was,  sir,  helping  break  law,"  and  Hicks  turned  completely 
around,  looking  out  of  his  sore  eyes  at  each  individual 
member  of  the  crowd,  with  the  self-satisfied  knowledge  of 
a  man  having  unimpeached  evidence  that  the  sheriff  was 
one  of  the  mob,  if,  indeed,  not  the  leader. 

"'Well,  Deacon,"  ventured  Dud,  a  trifle  warmly,  "if  he 
was  with  the  mob,  what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it,  sir;  what  of  it!  Considerably  of  it,  sir, 
considerably  of  it!  That's  what  of  it,  sir,  that's  what  of 
it !  Sheriff  supposed  to  maintain  law,  sir,  eh,  sir,  eh,  isn't 
he,  sir ;  isn't  he,  now  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Dud,  a  trifle  more  warmly,  "and  if  he's 
half  a  man  he's  not  only  supposed  to,  but  he's  going  to 
help  vindicate  outraged  virtue." 

"Law  does  that,  sir,"  testily  answered  the  righteous 
man;  "or,  at  least,  does  in  civilized  communities:  down 
here  they  let  mob  do  it — turn  it  over  to — to  cowards,  afraid 
to  commit  murder  unless  in  crowds — posses,  as  you  miscall 
them." 

"If  'tain't  civilized,  what  air  you  a-stayin'   here   fur, 


Il6  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

Deecon?"  inquired  Wicked  Bill,  and  Andy  Dodd  put  in, 
sotto  voce. 

"Why,  to  skin  us  d — n  fools,  that's  what  for." 

Everybody  down  in  the  Ott  end  of  the  store  guffawed 
at  that  shot,  which  made  Hicks  first  red  in  the  face  and 
then  purple,  because  he  didn't  know  at  what  they  were 
laughing.  He  knew,  of  course,  it  was  some  ribald,  unholy 
joke,  so  to  counteract  its  effect,  he  charged  back  to  the  topic 
in  hand  and  snapped  out : 

"No  use  arguing,  not  a  particle,  not  a  particle,  gentle- 
men; when  sheriffs  and  citizens  regard  pernicious  practice 
lynching  in  light  of  pleasing  diversion,  past  mending, 
gentlemen,  past  mending." 

At  the  sentiment  "no  use  arguing,"  Mat  commenced 
to  audibly  bristle.  Things  were  decidedly  past  mending — 
way  past  it  with  Mat,  when  arguing  ceased  availability — 
but  it  never  ceased.  It  was  with  Mat  in  that  respect  as 
it  was  with  the  fellow  who  said  if  they  had  one  bottle  the 
night  before  they  had  a  hundred — but  they  never  had  the 
one. 

"True,  Deacon,"  put  in  our  friend  Doyle,  "that's  very 
true.  Things  are  past  mendin' — away,  over  and  beyond 
mendin'  on  any  subject  when  it's  no  use  arguin' — but  it 
ain't  never  'no  use  arguin';'  why,  where  would  our  Chris- 
tian religion  be  to-day  if  we  hadn't  argued  our  way  through 
eighteen  centuries  ?  Arguin'  is  a  heap  better  remedy  than 
fightin'." 

"Gimme  the  fightin',"  said  Bill,  aside ;  "if  my  Winchester 
works  all  right,  I'll  remedy  the  other  feller  or  salivate 
him,  one;  fightin's  like  calomel  when  it  comes  to  rem- 
edyinV 

Hicks'  manner  softened  noticeably  as  he  turned  from 


JUDGE  LYNCH  AS  A  THEORY. 

Trenome  to  Mat  (ignoring  Wicked  Bill's  sinful  utterance), 
and  replied: 

"Yes,  Mat:  but  how  can  you  argue  with  madmen  or 
mob?  Can't  do  it,  Mat;  can't  do  it;  they  don't  wish 
argument,  brother;  murder  is  what  they're  after,  murder 
— yes,  sir,  murder." 

Mat  looked  stoutly  incredulous  at  the  idea  of  him  not 
being  able  to  argue  with  a  madman  or  a  mob,  or,  if  neces- 
sary, both  combined;  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  a  plu- 
rality of  combinations,  and  Dud  gave  decisive  voice  to  the 
look  by  saying: 

"Oh,  pshaw !  Mat's  like  some  women-folks  I've  heard  of 
— he'd  tackle  anything  in  pants." 

"Lord  bless  your  time,  Dudley,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil,  "he — he — he's  got  clear  beyond  pants;  he — he's 
gone  to  tacklin'  them  air,  what  do  you  call  'em — oh,  yes, 
cutters!  hee!  hce!  he!  ha!  ha!  ha!  hea!  hea!  hea!  heay!" 

Mat  tried  his  best  to  break  into  the  guffawing. 

"Confound  it ! — wouldn't  they  ever  get  something  new," 
he  thought,  but  it  was  no  use,  even  the  good  Deacon's 
Scriptural  profile  relaxed  some  of  its  orthodoxy  (though 
Tie  still  kept  in  mind  the  point  of  the  joke,  and  was,  there- 
fore, excusable). 

When  an  opening  did  finally  occur,  Mat  said,  with 
great  unction  and  impressively  scorning  Dud,  who  was 
still  convulsed  over  the  cutter: 

"As  we  were  savin',  gentlemen,  nothin's  ever  past 
arguin',  'cept  foolishness  (emphasis  for  Dud's  benefit). 
Lynchin',  as  bad  as  it  is,  ain't  incurable,  and  argument  is 
the  very  thing  that'll  stop  it — cool,  dispassionate  arg " 

Dud  straightened  up  with  an  easy  jerk  and  said,  good- 
naturedly — his  gorjre  nnlv  rose  at  the  lowly  man : 

"Oh,   come   off,   Mat !   'cool,   dispassionate   argument  P 


IlS  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

There's  no  need  of  any  argument;  the  sun  shines — what's 
the  use  of  arguin';  lynchin'  is  a  patent  fact,  and  a  just 
one,  so  there  you  are.  Because  it  ain't  down  in  the  statutes 
don't  signify  it  ain't  right,  any  more  than  it  signifies  that 
every  law  in  the  books  is  right." 

"I  grant  it's  a  patent  fact,  Dud ;  but  patents  run  out,  you 
know,"  Mat  essayed  adroitly,  and  Dud  instantly  rejoined: 

"Patents   on   vengeance  never   do !" 

Mat  caught  him  equally  as  quick.  Keen  hand  that  he 
was  in  debates,  all  he  wanted  was  a  willing  fish — he  guar- 
anteed palatable,  but  mighty  dangerous,  bait. 

"Vengeance,"  he  echoed,  "yes,  that's  the  keynote  of 
you  fellows'  defense.  But  vengeance  ain't  what  we're  after, 
the  law  don't  take  cognizance  of  vengeance." 

"Bother  the  law !"  exclaimed  Dud,  "Man  takes  notice 
of  vengeance;  man  makes  the  law,  therefore,  man  is 
superior  to  the  law;  and,  besides,  where  do  we  get  our 
notion  of  vengeance?  From  God  himself." 

"Yes,  Dud;  but  'vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord/ 
and  because  man  makes  the  law,  that  gives  him  no  right 
to  break  it,  either  individually  or  collectively;  but  much 
less  the  latter.  The  forms  of  law  are  prescribed  in  part 
to  prevent  the  very  wantonness  of  lynching." 

"Granted;  but  who  says  he's  breaking  it  wantonly?" 

The  Deacon,  who  had  been  squirming  like  an  eel  to 
wriggle  in  the  wrangle,  asked  sneeringly: 

"Isn't  killing  negroes  -for  pastime  wanton,  eh  ?" 

"That's  beside  the  question,  Deacon  Hicks"  emphasized 
Dud;  "we  are  discussin'  lynchin',  not  negroes." 

"He !  he !"  tittered  the  Deacon,  and  then  remarked,  with 
fine  sarcasm :  "Oh  ! — coiirse — lynching  and  negroes — oh, 
yes,  I  see — see;  two  entirely  different  things — not  to  be 
thought  of  in  connection — oh,  dear  no,  he !  he !" 


JUDGE    LYNCH    AS   A  THEORY. 

Dud  was  nettled  at  this,  but  not  deeming  the  good  man  a 
worthy  foeman,  he  turned  his  back  on  him  abruptly,  and, 
facing  Mat,  said: 

"'I  advocate  lynchin'  for  one  crime,  regardless  of  color. 
Ain't  that  the  discussion,  Mat?" 

"Well,  no,"  answered  Mat,  cautiously;  "you  were 
upholdin'  lynchin'  as  a  concrete  proposition." 

"So, — so,  and  ain't  lynchin'  for  one  crime  a  concrete 
subject  ?" 

'•'Abstract,  Dud,  perfectly  abstract;  and,  like  most 
abstract  subjects,  considerably  changed  in  practice." 

"No  sophistry,  Mat,"  objected  Dud,  "none  of  your 
lawyer's  kink,  now — broad,  open  question." 

"I'm  ready  for  it,"  caught  up  Mat,  landing  on  his  oppo- 
nent again;  "'less  have  the  Abroad,  open  question' — that's 
what  we  want.  Lynchin' — that's  the  plain,  simple,  broad, 
open,  single  question.  You're  the  fellow  who's  try  in'  to 
hamper  it  with  conditions.  Why,  shucks !  if  I  advocated 
anything  and  wasn't  able  to  uphold  it,  regardless  of  condi- 
tions, I'd  quit." 

The  banter,  sharp,  though  friendly,  brought  Dud  right 
out  on  the  firing  line,  and  he  waved  his  hand  vigorously, 
taking  in  the  entire  crowd  with  the  sweep,  from  Hicks  to 
"Pedro,"  and  declared: 

"Very,  well,  I'll  meet  him  on  lynchin' — jes  the  one 
word.  /  don't  have  to  fill  on  a  pat  hand — 'specially  'ginst 
deuces  and  trays" ;  and  then  to  Mat :  "Take  it,  old  lawyer, 
you  called  the  trump ;  lynchin' — good !  Now  let's  have  it." 

"Oh,  no,  Dud,"  laughed  Mat,  "you're  the  man  who  put 
the  affirmative,  so  the  burden's  on  you.  You  say  it's  right. 
Prove  it.  I  don't  have  to  prove  it  wrong,  because  your 
merely  sayin'  it's  right  ain't  proved  it  at  all." 

The  crowd,  notwithstanding  Dud  was  the  popular  one 


I2O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

(in  the  sense  of  chummyness),  and  had  the  popular  end 
of  the  controversy,  murmured  assent  at  that  plain  rule  of 
evidence,  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  for  Dud  but  to  begin. 
He  forthwith  sighted  his  battery,  determined  to  launch 
several  radical  shells,  draw  Mat  on  a  shoal,  and  then  wreck 
him  with  one  bump.  But  a  tug  can't  tow  a  steamer 
unless  the  steamer  is  willing,  and  even  then  the  tug  lets 
the  whole  river  know  she's  at  work.  Dud  was  a  natural 
hand  and  Mat's  superior  at  stump  repartee,  but  he  had 
very  little  use  for  Plato,  and  those  old  codgers  who  were 
wont  to  build  on  the  rockbed  of  logic. 

"All  right,  gentlemen,"  he  began,  "I  said  lynchin'  was 
right,  I  believe.  Well,  then,  when  a  man " 

"Hold  on,  hold  on,"  interrupted  Mat;  "let's  start  at 
the  beginnin'.  What's  the  definition  of  lynchin'  ?" 

"Oh,  the  devil  and  Tom  Walker!"  jeered  Dud,  "every- 
body knows  that." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Mat  persisted. 

"Why — uh — why — uh,"  floundered  his  opponent,  at  sea, 
like  a  lot  of  us,  who  are  always  so  powerfully  certain; 
"why,  I  should  say,  lynchin'  is  a  sort  of  an  unconventional 
takin'  off." 

"That's  wrong,"  put  in  the  Deacon;  "it's  conventional 
in  this  section,  as,  as " 

"Riots  up  North,"  finished  Dud,  amid  a  general  laugh 
of  approval. 

Mat,  who  saw  the  dangerous  and  irrelevant  trend  of  the 
interruption,  hurriedly  called  the  question. 

"Less  have  it,  boys,  who's  got  the  best  definition?" 

Uncle  Alec  McXeil  allowed  that  a  spelling  book  might 
give  it,  or,  very  likely  a  geography  (in  the  latter,  prob- 
ably under  the  head  of  "Georgia")  ;  but  Mat  thought  pos- 
sibly Webster's  was  the  safest  resort.  So  Uncle  Alec 


JUDGE  LYNCH  AS  A  THEORY.        121 

McNeil  shuffled  up  to  the  house,  and  returned  after  a 
long  search  (so  he  said)  with  a  Webster.  He  also  brought 
back  a  suspicious  odor  on  his  breath,  but  as  that  was 
neither  here  nor  there,  it  may  pass  unnoticed,  even  though 
Bill  Ott  did  imitate  the  gurgle,  gurgle,  gurgle  of  a  bottle, 
at  which  Andy  and  the  outfit  guffawed  very  impolitely. 

"Lynchin',"  said  Mat,  turning  the  pages  of  the  diction- 
ary; "here  it  is :  Lynch :  To  inflict  pain,  or  punish  without 
the  forms  of  law,  as  by  a  mob  or  by  unauthorized  persons. 
Lynchin':  Punishing  or  abusing  without  law.  There  you 
are,  Dud."  He  laid  the  book  down,  vaulted  on  the  counter, 
crossed  his  legs,  stuck  a  pine  splinter  between  his  teeth,  and 
drawled : 

"Shoot,  Luke— the  rabbit's  waitin' !" 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  MORE  THEORIES." 

DUD  was  about  to  obey  Mat's  direction  when  the  rear 
door  was  pushed  slightly  open  and  "Dear's"  classic  head 
obtruded  itself  through  the  aperture. 

"McNeil,"  she  commanded,  in  a  low  voice,  but  none  the 
less  guttural,  "I  want  to  see  you." 

As  she  already  saw  him  to  the  extent  of  a  most  men- 
acing, not  to  say  ferocious,  glare,  the  verbally  expressed 
desire  was  in  the  nature  of  a  redundant  superfluity,  to  say 
nothing  of  its  being  an  unpardonable  interruption. 

Nevertheless,  though  the  above  were  Dud's  thoughts, 
his  hand  ceased  its  pending  flourish,  and  his  ahem-pre- 
ceded  "Gentleman"  died  a  weak  death  as  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil  wended  his  way  through  the  Ott  end  of  the  audi- 
ence and  hove  to  within  breath-smelling  distance  of  his 
spouse. 

.From  disjointed  expression  of  "goin'  in  that  jug  agin," 
"know  what  you  was  after,"  "can't  lie  out  of  it,"  and 
"be  too  drunk  to  open  up  to-morrow"  on  "Dear's"  part, 
and  equally  disjointed  and  far  more  earnest  (but  unavail- 
ing) avowals  and  denials  of  "huntin'  for  the  dictionary/* 
"just  a  bare  sip,"  "cold  air,"  "felt  shakerish-like/'  "no, 
no ;  'pon  my  word,"  on  Uncle  Alec  McNeil's  part,  the  said 
audience,  especially  the  Ott  end,  divined  that  "Dear"  and 
Uncle  Alec  McNeil  were  engaged  in  Kilkenny  love  passages, 
superinduced  and  brought  about  by  Uncle  Alec  McNeil's 
[122] 


MORE  THEORIES.  123 

recent  long  search  for  Webster's.  And  as  the  said  audi- 
ence, and  very  especially  the  Ott  end  of  it,  never  at  any 
time  exceeded,  personally,  the  low  temperature,  financially, 
of  their  pockets  in  "Dears"  disinterested  estimation;  and, 
whereas,  "Dear"  rioted  in  the  hallucination  that  said  audi- 
ence, most  especially  the  Ott  end  of  it,  was  generally  the 
propelling  cause  of  Uncle  Alec  McXeiFs  locomotion  jug- 
wards  ;  and,  whereas,  she  reveled  in  the  insane  alarm  that, 
being  a  drink  or  two  to  starboard,  he  might  unwittingly 
fail  to  note  a  strav  filch,  or  treat  to  cheroots  without 
charging  same  to  somebody ;  and,  whereas,  she,  herself,  was 
too  far  starboard  on  drinks  this  particular  night  to  attend 
shop;  now,  therefore,  she  willed  it  Resolved,  That  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil  lay  the  meeting  on  the  table  before  he,  or 
she,  or  both  of  them,  required  laying  under  the  table. 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  Judge  Lynch 
as  suddenly  suspended  as  that  meritorious  magistrate  has 
in  his  day  left  many  another  subject — though  in  all  candor, 
while  he  leaves  his  subjects  suspended,  it  can  never  be  said 
that  they  are  not  finished. 

On  emerging  into  the  roadway  the  audience  perceived 
it  was  raining,  and  the  Ott  end  being — a  la  a  tadpole — 
the  large  end  of  the  crowd  (if  we  except  Deacon  Hicks' 
feet),  and  being — not  a  la  a  tadpole — opposed  to  water 
under  other  than  the  most  stringent  provisions,  the  pro- 
portions of  the  assembly,  by  unanimous  consent,  dissolved. 
The  Deacon,  smarting  from  his  summary  snubbing  at 
Dud's  hands,  bade  Mat  good-night,  jerkedly,  and  betook 
himself  to  his  sanctuary.  Wicked  Bill,  Constable  Tobe  Ott, 
nephew  of  the  former,  and  son  of  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tobe 
Ott,  Andy  Dodd,  "Pedro"  and  several  more  choice  and 
other  grades  of  spirits,  relatively  speaking,  reopened  the 
session  under  Hicks'  lumber  shed,  where  it  might  literally 


124  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

be  said  that  High  and  Low  stood  on  an  equal  footing—- 
likewise Jack  and  Game.  Mat  and  Dud  struck  out  west 
towards  the  Doyleses. 

"The  old  lady's  wrathy  to-night,"  Dud  remarked;  "but 
she  saved  your  hide  for  you,  Mat." 

"Huh!"  grunted  that  gentleman,  in  an  exclamation  of 
incredulous  disgust  at  the  idea  of  his  hide  requiring  saving. 

"Huh !  my  hide  !" 

"Yes,  your  hide !  Why,  the  crowd  was  all  on  my  end  of 
it;  you'd  'a  only  had  the  Deacon." 

"The  Deacon  and  right,"  sententiously  observed  Doyle. 

"Ha,  ha!  That's  good:  the  Deacon  and  right — what  a 
pair  to  fill  on.  Lord  a-mercy,  Mat,  do  you  suppose  right 
would  perch  on  the  same  limb  with  the  De " 

"Now  stop,  Dud;  you  and  I  don't  agree  on  Brother 
Hicks  now — though  I  know  you're  too  just  to  hold  out 
aginst  him  forever/' 

"Pshaw!"  ejaculated  Dud  aside,  as  though  forever  was 
a  mere  second  compared  to  the  time  he  could  hold  out 
against  that  lowly  man  of  God;  but  he  discarded  the 
"pshaw"  and  its  correlative  reflections,  and  said,  sooth- 
ingly and  good-naturedly: 

"Well,  well;  never  mind,  old  grubber,  we  won't  settle 
the  Deacon  yet,  and  when  I'm  ready  to  change  my  views 
on  him  I'll  give  you  credit  for  it  just  the  same  as  I'll 
chalk  it  down,  too,  if  you  convert  me  on  lynchin' — if 
you  do." 

"There  you  go  agin,  Dud;  you're  a  slick  one — a  reg'lar 
eel.  It  ain't  my  business  to  convert  you,  you've  got  the 
burden  of " 

"Oh,  hang  the  burden!  I  know  what  you're  after: 
you're  tryin'  to  get  me  to  tell  all  I  know  and  then  twist  it 


MORE  THEORIES.  125 

aroun'  my  neck  till  I'm  done  for  and  choked  on  my  own 
hamestring." 

"Not  at  all;  not  a  bit  of  it;  you  took  the  affirmative, 
and  you  know  very  well  that  you'll  get  the  rejoinder — 
the  last  word;  if  lynchin's  right  you  surely  oughtn't  to 
be  afraid  to  say  why  it's  right." 

"What's  the  use?"  queried  Dud,  who,  now  that  the 
crowd  was  gone,  and  no  one  but  Mat  to  see  his  choice 
gestures,  wasn't  over  eager  to  prolong  the  discussion. 
"What  if  I  do  give  my  reasons,  it'd  be  just  like  you  givin' 
me  your  reasons  for  Hicks  bein'  an  animated  Bible — you 
wouldn't  convince  me,  nor  I  you." 

"Oh,  yes  you  would!"  Mat  asserted,  vehemently,  for 
wordy  war  was  his  delight  and  element;  crowd  or  no 
crowd  he  was  an  argumentative  war  horse  who  scented 
scuffles  afar  off  and  cried,  "Huh!  Huh!" 

"You  ought  to  know  me  well  eno\igh,  Dud,  to  know 
that  if  you  convince  me  I'll  acknowledge  it,  something 
some  other  folks  ought  to  do  who've  had  enough  said  to 
them  about  the  De — about  other  things " 

"Oh,  stop!  stop!"  broke  in  his  friend,  shoving  him 
dangerously  near  the  road  ditch;  "let  up  and  go  on  with 
your  rat  killin',  or  your  nigger  savin*  as  you  call  it,  I 
reckon." 

"You  go  on,  then,"  demanded  Mat,  determined  that  Dud 
should  "lead  off";  "you  go  ahead  without  your  nigger 
Tcillin',  as  you  call  it,  I  reckon ;  you've  been  dodging  aroun' 
the  bush  ever  since  the  question  commenced.  I  don't 
believe  you've  got  a  single  point  in  that  old  head  of  yours." 

Mat  said  this  seriously,  and  might  have  meant  it  for 
aught  you,  or  Dud,  or  I  know.  At  any  rate,  Dud  ceased 
his  jocular  air  and  said  quicklv: 

"All  right !  Here  goes  point  one,  and  mind,  you  are 


126  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

to  hold  that  bell-clapper  tongue  of  yours  until  I  dance 
this  figure  out." 

"Shoot,  Luke,"  murmured  Mat,  bringing  up  at  his  front 
gate  and  holding  it  open  for  Dud  to  pass  in.  But  Dud 
didn't  "Shoot,  Luke,"  nor  did  he  pass  in.  He  halted  and 
glanced  toward  the  house.  There  was  a  firelight  flickering 
and  dancing  and  gleaming  from  the  windows,  and  female 
forms  could  be  seen  inside — three  female  forms,  to  be 
precise — all  of  them  known  to  us,  but  one  (the  smallest 
one  and  the  one  that  was  rocking  most  vigorously  and 
eeemed  to  be  engaged  in  a  calisthenic  discourse),  unknown 
to  Dud.  Mat  followed  his  chum's  look  with  a  passing 
keen  perception,  for  he  picked  out  the  object  on  which 
Dud's  eyes — I  won't  say  rested,  but  wavered — which  was 
no  larger  nor  no  smaller  a  person  than  Miss  Hennon. 

When  we  left  Mat  and  Miss  Hennon  filing  up  the  Doyle 
walk  early  in  September — or  late  in  August,  I  believe 
it  was — -anyhow,  I  remember  we  left  them  advancing  011 
the  Doyle  residence,  and  advanced  ourselves  on  Deacon 
Hicks,  and  while  we  were  contemplating  the  ecstatic  rev- 
erie of  Brother  Setton,  Miss  Hennon  and  [Mother  Doyle 
were  deciding  that  each  appeared  likable,  and  upon  Betty's 
declaration  in  the  kitchen,  while  Miss  Hennon  was  await- 
ing dinner,  that  she  believed  Mat  was  as  strongly  in  favor 
of  taking  the  schoolmarm  as  she  was  about  saving  "them 
butter  balls"  (and,  gracious  knows,  that's  powerful  strong) . 
Mother  Doyle  hastenejl  back  to  the  sitting-room  to  make 
herself  perfectly  lovable  to  the  probationer — to  do  which, 
bless  her  heart,  she  didn't  need  much  exertion.  But  she 
found  the  sitting-room  empty,  and  being  a  bit  wrought  up, 
thought  that  Miss  Hennon  had  taken  umbrage  at  their 
leaving  her  alone,  and  left.  She  knew  city  folks  were 
terrible  sticklers  about  such  things.  She  was  on  the  point 


MORE  THEORIES.  I2/ 

of  returning  to  the  kitchen  in  despair  when,  glancing  out 
of  the  window,  she  saw  Mat  and  Miss  Hennon  at  the 
fence,  and  on  looking  closely,  which  she  could  scarce  do 
for  amazement,  she  saw  the  black  sides  and  white  briskets 
of  "them  identical  butter  balls" — and  not  one  of  'em 
squealing. 

"Betty,"  she  called;  "come  here/' 

"Coming  mother." 

"Look." 

"Sakes  alive!" 

"And  the  pigs." 

"The  pigs?" 

"Yes — they  ain't  makin'  a  bit  o*  fuss.'* 

"I  reckon  they  never  saw  Mat  with  a  lady  before  and 
don't  know  it's  him." 

When  Mat  and  Miss  Hennon  came  to  the  house  it 
developed  that  Mat  had  fetched  the  squealers  an  armful 
of  nubbins  from  the  barn  to  occupy  their  attention  and 
enable  Miss  Hennon  to  get  a  good  look  at  them.  And 
Miss  Hennon  said,  enthusiastically: 

"Those  pigs  are  a  splendid  advertisement,  Mrs.  Doyle; 
I'd  board  anywhere  to  get  a  good  bait  of  them"  (again 
that  cute  adoption  of  our  idiom).  When  she  said  that, 
Mother  Doyle  and  Betty  looked  for  Mat  to  retire  per- 
manently and  hermetically  in  his  shell  and  take  his  pigs 
in  with  him.  Here  was  this  schoolmarm,  whom  Mother 
Doyle  was  wanting  solely  in  order  to  save  those  porkers — 
here,  I  say,  was  this  schoolmarm,  anticipating  with  vora- 
cious glee  a  meal's  victuals — maybe  several  of  them — on 
Mat's  favorites.  It  just  completely  bumfuzzled  Mother 
Doyle,  and  that's  the  only  outlandish  word  I  know  which 
will  anyways  fit.  •  As  for  Betty,  she  actually  dropped  an 
egg  on  the  floor;  and  old  Ball,  who  was  a  privileged  char- 


128  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

acter  in  the  kitchen,  nonchalantly  lapped  it  up  and  looked 
a  vote  of  thanks  at  Miss  Hennon  for  being  the  cause  of  it. 

But  alarm  quickly  made  way  for  wonderment.  "Are 
you  going  to  board  with  us,  then?"  asked  Mat,  in  what 
Mother  Doyle  and  Betty  mistook  for  a  fit  of  undiplomatic 
desperation. 

"After  seeing  those  pigs !"  was  the  answering  exclama- 
tion. "Why,  Mr.  Doyle,  you  all  can't  put  me  out  mow! 
Ain't  you  sorry  ?"  and  she  said  that  "ain't"  with  her  little 
mouth  spread  and  her  teeth  showing  for  all  the  world  like 
a  regular  hoe-down  Dixie  girl.  At  that  moment  Mat 
couldn't  think  of  any  Dixie  girl  who  could  say  "ain't" 
near  as  well. 

"Huh!"  he  laughed  (as  Mother  Doyle  repeated  some 
hundreds  of  times  on  the  quiet  to  Betty).  "Huh!  Well, 
the  directors  'd  better  furnish  you  with  a  rig  this  winter, 
for  when  you  get  one  mess  of  the  sausage  mother'll  make 
out  o'  them  Poland  Chinas  walkin'  '11  be  out  o'  the  ques- 
tion— you'll  jes  stay  too  full  o'  sausage  to  even  waddle! 
Huh,  huh !" 

That  settled  it  for  good  and  for  all. 

Betty  wasn't  quite  sure  whether  Mat's  reason  hadn't 
become  deranged  on  account  of  the  double  catastrophe  of 
a  female  boarder  and  the  impending  fate  of  his  favorites — 
and,  indeed,  she  and  Mother  Doyle  theorized  not  a  little 
over  the  miracle,  for  it  was  nothing  short  of  one.  Mat, 
however,  didn't  theorize.  He  kicked  theories  sky,  west 
and  crooked — flung  his  terrapin  shell  clean  over  into  the 
next  county,  and  banished  Dud's  hatchet-faced,  rasping- 
voiced  Miss  Hennon  into  ignominious  oblivion. 

"What's  the  matter,  Dud?"  he  inquired,  still  holding 
the  gate  ajar;  "you  needn't  try  to  go  home;  it's  goin'  to 
rain  all  night." 


MORE   THEORIES. 


'Oh,  Mat,  I'm  much  obliged,  but  feedin'- 


don't  go  to  rakin'  up  any  'buts' — ain't  nobody 
goin'  to  run  off  with  your  shack  'fore  mornin',  and  you 
wet  through  and  through  right  now,"  he  added,  feeling 
Dud's  coat. 

"Like  to  stay  best  kind,  Mat,  but  the  hands '' 

"The  hands'll  feed  everything — they  got  nothin'  else  to 
do,  anyhow,  now — why,  come  along — she  ain't  a-goin'  to 
hurt  you/' 

"She  ?  Who  ?"     (Innocence  personified !) 

"Miss  Hennon." 

"Oh,  stuff ! — wasn't  studyin'  'bout  Miss  What-you-call- 
her."  (Done  forgot  her  name  already!) 

"Don't  tell  me  any  such  yarn,  Dudley  Trenome !  You 
been  lookin'  right  through  the  window  at  her  like  she 
was  a  varmint." 

"Well — I  couldn't  look  through  the  planks  or  the  chim- 
ney at  her,  could  I?"  and  Dud  essayed  a  laugh,  which 
Mat  ignored. 

"You  needn't  be  skeered  up  'bout  your  wantin'  a  Pike 
girl  to  teach,  she  don't  even  know  about  it ;  you  think  we'd 
talk  about  you " 

"That  ain't  what's  botherin  me,  Mat;  I  don't  give  a 
continental  about  Miss — Miss " 

"Hennon." 

"Miss  Hennon  teachin',  I'm  thinkin'  about  feedin'  the 
stock  an'  things  in  the  mornin'." 

"Get  out,  you  old  scamp,  you!  You've  stayed  all  night 
here  a  thousand  times,  and  when  did  you  ever  get  so  pes- 
tered 'bout  feedin'  before?  You  jes  ain't  got  over  the  new 
teacher,  an'  you  know  it — here,  go  in — if  you  don't  want  to 
bother  around  Miss  Hennon  we  can  go  on  up  to  my  room. 


I3O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Pshaw,  boy,  I  didn't  know  you  was  afraid  of  a  petticoat — 
thought  /  was  usually  the  one,  accordin'  to  you/' 

While  saying  this,  Mat  had  been  leading  the  not  very 
unwilling  young  man  along  the  walk,  and  presently  they 
began  to  ascend  the  porch  steps. 

"There  comes   Mat,"   said  Betty  in  the   sitting-room. 

"And   somebody  with  him,"   remarked  Miss   Hennon. 

"Sounds  like  Dudley's  step,"  observed  Mother  Doyle. 

Miss  Hennon  knew  who  Dudley  was,  "by  reputation," 
as  the  phrase  goes.  Mother  Doyle  and  Betty  had  recounted 
the  entire  list  of  Dud's  virtues  intermittently,  from  almost 
the  first  day  she  came  (but  they,  nor  Mat — none  of  the 
Doyleses,  not  even  old  Ball — had  ever  said  boo  about  Dud's 
opposition  to  her  before  the  Board).  She  had  also  heard 
of  Dud  from  another  source.  Deacon  Hicks  had  informed 
her  of  his  presence  on  earth,  and  left  her  to  infer  that  his 
eventual  change  of  residence  would  necessarily  be  to  a 
climate  where  certain  countless  numbers  of  souls  are  in  a 
state  of  constant  ignition.  The  good  Deacon  also  told  her 
that  had  there  been  two  like  Dud  on  the  Board,  she  would 
never  have  enjoyed  the  extraordinary,  providential-like 
fortune  of  teaching  Pike  tots  in  that  year  of  grace.  (This 
information,  by  the  bye,  Miss  Hennon  withheld  from  the 
Doyleses,  and  from  the  same  spirit  that  prompted  them  to 
withhold  their's  from  her.) 

So  we  may  say  that  the  little  teacher  was  in  a  most 
undecided  frame  of  "mind  regarding  Mr.  Trenome — sort 
of  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  blue  sea — not  that  I  wish 
to  apostrophize  the  Doyleses  as  old  Neptune.  According  to 
Mat — and  Mat  had  dwelt  at  great  length  on  Dud — Dud 
was  without  a  superior  in  morals,  moods  and  manners. 
On  the  other  hand,  Brother  Hicks  summarily  listed  him 
in  the  hemp  candidate  class.  Then,  when  Mat  touched 


MORE   THEORIES.  13! 

on  Setton  and  ascribed  all  the  apostolic  virtues  to  kirn, 
including,  of  course,  the  Washingtonian  incapacity  to  pre- 
varicate, Laura  was  truly  bewildered.  The  only  conclu- 
sion she  could  arrive  at  was  one  at  which,  if  you  knew  her 
good  sense  better,  you  would  evince  no  surprise,  i.  e.f  she 
reserved  placing  Mr.  Trenome  on  any  standard  until  she 
met  him. 

Consequently,  when  Mother  Doyle  made  the  above  obser- 
vation, and  Betty  threw  open  the  sitting-room  door  to  give 
the  boys  light,  Mi=s  Hennon  turned  in  her  chair,  prepar- 
atory to  rising,  and  peered  into  the  hall  with  as  great  degree 
of  anxiety  as  Dud,  who  had  been  peering  in  the  window  all 
the  way  up  the  walk,  was  simultaneously  experiencing. 
And  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  schoolmarm  and  the 
school  director  wouldn't  have  been  at  all  unprepared  on 
the  one  side  for  a  second  edition  of  Mr.  Squeers,  and,  on 
the  other,  for  an  excellent  portrait  of  Charity  Pecksniff. 


CHAPTEK  XII. 

HER? 

MAT  and  Dud  didn't  sit  on  Judge  Lynch  that  night: 
they  sat  in  the  sitting  room  with  the  women  folks  until 
it  was  too  late  to  sit  on  anything — even  a  chair.  After 
they  had  exhausted  every  other  subject,  except  hanging 
without  due  process  of  law,  Dud  observed,  jokingly : 

"See  here:  eleven  o'clock  may  do  well  enough  for  you 
town  folks,  but  us  country  people  can't  stand  it." 

"Listen  to  him/'  echoed  Betty,  "jes  listen  to  him;  when 
he's  up  at  all  hours  sparkin'  those  girls  back  of  his  place !" 

Dud  didn't  take  the  remark  in  as  near  a  careless,  half- 
vain  fashion  as  usual,  and  when  Mat  put  in: 

'•'I  say  all  hours!  Why,  every  owl  up  in  those  woods 
knows  him,"  Dud  said  to  the  schoolmarm  (as  if  it  mat- 
tered twopence  to  her)  : 

"Mat's  a  confirmed  woman-hater,  Miss  Hennon,  and 
thinks  because  we're  such  old  friends  that  I  ought  to  be 
one,  too." 

"Huh!"  retorted  Mat,  and  as  such  a  "huh"  as  Mat 
usually  emitted,  may /be,  like  our  astounding  (patent) 
medical  discoveries,  turned  to  any  desirable  account, 
Mother  Doyle  remarked  that,  "Yes,  she  thought  it  was 
bed-time  also,"  and  so  to  bed  they  all  went — the  little 
teacher  convinced  that  the  oft-mentioned  Mr.  Trenome 
was  a  more  likable  personage  than  friend  Dickens'  worthy 
schoolmaster,  and  Dud  firm  in  the  conviction  that  the 


HER?  133 

erstwhile  unwelcome  Miss  Hennon  was  Charity  Pecksniff's 
antipodes.  After  the  boys  were  in  bed,  and  when  Mat  had 
just  about  got  his  snoring  apparatus  in  shape,  Dud  raised 
his  head  up  in  the  dark  and  half-whispered: 

"Mat,  I  take  all  that  Yankee-old-maid-business  back ; 
she's  an  exception/'  and  his  friend  snored  back:  "Huh, 
umph,  huh — uh — a — uh — haw-w-w." 

"Dad  blame  his  time  I"  Dud  softly  exclaimed,  "he's  gone 
to  sleep.  Well,  if  she  can't  keep  him  awake  he'll  never 
lose  sleep  over  women/' 

Trenome  was  up  a  close  second  to  the  chickens  next 
morning,  and  scarcely  waited  on  breakfast.  In  fact,  he 
was  on  his  way  to  the  stable,  intending  to  start  before 
eating,  but,  happening  to  run  across  the  little  teacher, 
and  asking  her  what  in  the  world  brought  her  out  so  early, 
she,  of  course,  asserted  her  Yankee  by  answering  him  with 
a  like  query. 

"Why,"  he  replied,  "I'm  anxious  to  get  home  and  feed 
— I'm  afraid  my  negroes  won't  'tend  to  it  properly." 

"Your  negroes?"  she  queried,  mock-inocently,  and  then 
added,  "I  thought  slavery  was  abolished  down  here?" 

"Oh,  did  you?  That's  more  than  most  of  you  people 
think." 

Laura  saw  that  he  was  nettled  and  a  bit  too  fiery  to 
conceal  it,  and  she  rather  liked  him  for  it.  She  said, 
quickly : 

"Forgive  me — I  was  only  joking;  I've  seen  worse  slaves 
from  where  I  came  than  ever  were  here — and  I've  been 
one,  too — but  don't  you  think  it's  unhealthy  to  ride  so  far 
on  an  empty  stomach?"  she  asked,  changing  the  subject 
and  dismissing  a  bitter  expression  from  her  face. 

"Pshaw !"  ejaculated  Dud,  and  he  threw  out  his  chest 


134  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

with  that  pride  which  prevents  youth  from  ever  taking 
stock  in  the  bogie  man  disease. 

"Well,  it  is  unhealthy;  you  wouldn't  make  your  horse 
do  it,  and  you  can't  stand  near  as  much  physical  strain 
as  your  horse." 

"Pshaw  I"  again  Dud  exclaimed,  but  he  stayed  to  break- 
fast, "for,"  said  he  at  the  table,  just  as  though  he  had 
attended  school  in  the  forties,  "these  modern  teachers  are 
powerful  up  on  hygiene,  and  diet,  and  all  those  new- 
fangled ideas,  and,  of  course,  a  school  director  had  to 
sort  o'  keep  on  the  band  wagon/' 

He  was  off,  though,  quick  enough  after  breakfast,  and 
put  his  pony  (or  Betty's  pony,  as  he  now  called  her,  she 
being  the  one  he  promised  her  for  a  wedding  present),  over 
the  road  in  a  smart  gallop.  By  the  time  he  pulled  up  at 
his  lot  gate  the  pony  was  well  blown  and  inclined  to  be 
somewhat  sulky  over  it,  too. 

"Never  mind,  young  un,"  he  said,  patting  her  shoulder, 
"this  is  your  last  run  for  a  while  now,  your  ole  man's  got 
to  get  down  to  punkins,  hear?"  and  the  pony  looked  as  if 
she  hoped  he'd  get  his  fill  of  "punkins"  and  not  hurry, 
if  getting  down  to  ''em  meant  a  lay  off  for  her. 

Dud  did  get  down  to  punkins  with  an  italicized  P; 
not  that  he  had  ever  been  any  stranger  to  work,  but  then 
he  had  never  had  to  work  extra  hard,  and  most  of  us 
Southern  lads  are  not  fiends  after  it  when  rest  will  do 
even  half  as  well.  Dud  had  been  an  orphan  ever  since 
he  reached  maturity,  his  mother  having  died  several  years 
previously  after  surviving  her  husband  a  short  time.  Since 
her  death  Dud  had  kept  the  farm  up  to  its  high  standard ; 
that  is,  had  come  out  even  every  year  and  sufficient  over  to 
avoid  mortgaging  against  another  season.  There  was  no 
particular  credit  coming  to  him  on  that  showing,  as  the 


HER?  135 

farm  averaged  from  three-fourths  to  a  bale  of  cotton  and 
twenty-five  bushels  of  corn  to  the  acre  even  in  dry  spells. 

He  very  seldom  touched  a  plow,  except  when  wet  weather 
rushed  the  hands;  he  had  nobody  to  look  after  but  him- 
self; and,  take  his  position  all  in  all,  he  had  no  great 
amount  of  applause  due  him  for  even  letting  well-enough 
alone;  and  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  those  folks  who  are 
content  to  let  well-enough  alone  are  generally  the  kind 
who  get  all  the  praise  they  deserve — which  is  none.  If 
Mat  Doyle  had  had  the  Trenome  place  and  enjoyed  the 
same  <klay"  as  Dud  had  enjoyed  since  becoming  sole  owner, 
it  is  entirely  reasonable  to  presume  that  the  place  would 
have  increased  in  value  something  like  half;  but  then  Mat 
came  of  no  ordinary  stock  on  his  mother's  side,  and  the 
comparison  is  scarcely  fair.  What  Mat  was,  heredity  had 
put  in  him;  Dud's  worth,  if  not  as  great,  was  all  his  own, 
or,  at  any  rate,  filtered  down  from  some  fore-parent  of 
whom  he  had  no  knowledge,  for  Dud's  father  and  mother 
had  both  been  absolute  minus  signs,  as  far  as  vim,  perse- 
verance, never-say-stop  qualities  went.  Dud  inherited  as 
good  a  farm  as  Pike  boasted,  but  he  fell  heir  to  no  thrifty 
examples,  whereas  Mat  had  received  untold  advances  on  a 
maternal  legacy  of  "don't  wait  for  the  sun  to  shine — 
make  hay  anyhow." 

Dud  thought  of  all  these  things  the  morning  he  returned 
from  the  Doyleses,  and  his  reflections  led  him  to  wonder 
why  he  hadn't  sooner  noticed  the  slipshod  state  of  affairs 
on  the  farm  before.  The  barn  roof  was  in  a  dickens  of  a 
fix;  the  smoke-house  (full  of  prime  meat)  was  as  ram- 
shackly  as  old  man  Honeyburr's  gin  over  the  creek,  and 
it  had  been  scheduled  to  tumble  down  ever  since  the  Brooks- 
Baxter  war ;  every  other  fence  panel  was  more  patched  and 
worse  patched  than  Deacon  Hicks*  sawmill  belt;  in  short, 


136  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

so  many  erstwhile  scarce-heeded  needs  and  wants  were 
glaringly  apparent  that  our  friend  declared: 

"Why,  the  place  is  goin'  to  the  devil !" 

Just  why  he  arrived  at  that  conclusion  on  the  morning 
in  question  rather  than  any  other  morning,  he  couldn't 
have  explained,  and  as  I  am  merely  a  narrator,  I  can't 
explain.  But  arrive  at  it  he  did;  and  the  frosts  having 
killed  out  the  miasma  and  all  the  rest  of  that  tirod  feeling, 
and  toned  up  the  ozone,  he  was  in  trim  to  be  emphatic 
regarding  the  satanic  drift  of  his  farm. 

"Yes,  goin'  right  to  the  devil,*'  he  repeated,  "and  the 
brakes  are  goin'  to  be  put  on,  I'm  here  to  tell  you.  I'm 
dad  blamed  if  the  crows  won't  be  buildin.'  nests  in  the 
house  if  I  don't  get  down  to  punkins/' 

At  it  he  went,  not  hammer  and  tongs,  but  hammer  and 
nails.  November  gave  way  to  December;  the  old  year 
limped  out  and  the  new  one  skipped  in;  hotbeds  came 
in  season;  ground  began  to  be  turned  over  and  harrowed, 
and  Dud  had  only  been  into  Pike  two  or  three  times: 
once  to  help  Mat  butcher  the  Poland  Chinas,  once  to 
attend  the  Sunday-school  Christinas  tree  (at  which  Miss 
Hennon's  pupils  held  forth),  and  once  to  visit  the  school, 
that  being  a  duty  of  each  director,  the  failure  to  perform 
which  at  least  once  a  term  meant  a  penalty  of  ten  dollars. 
Over  and  above  those  three  times  Dud  stayed  at  home, 
sending  one  of  the  negipo  boys  in  when  occasion  demanded. 

When  Petticoated  and  Pantalooned  Pike,  or  more  con7 
cisely,  Consolidated  Pike,  learned  that  repairing  and 
patching  was  the  cause  of  his  absence  from  the  busy  mart 
of  whittledom,  it  (C.  P.)  at  once  began  speculation  as  to 
who  was  the  woman  in  the  case ;  and  that  was  a  matter  of 
some  latitude,  as  Dud  had  "gone  with"  every  available 
unmarried  and  widowed  petticoat  in  Pike  and  all  its  adja- 


HER?  137 

cent  counties.  Mother  Doyle  gave  as  strong  currency  to 
the  notion  as  anybody,  and  she  would  generally  wind  up 
her  guesses  as  to  Dud's  future  "woman"  with  a  "go-and- 
do-likewise"  look  at  Mat  and  the  little  teacher,  and  some 
such  philosophic  remark  as,  '•'Well,  that's  what  all  young 
folks  ought  to  do,"  and  "She  was  sure  whoever  got  Dud- 
ley got  nigh  as  good  a  boy  as  Matthew,"  whereat  Matthew 
would  say,  "Huh,  lots  better,  mother,  lots  better." 

Meanwhile  Dud  hammered  and  sawed  away,  totally 
oblivious  to  the  excitement  he  was  producing — and  any 
one  at  all  acquainted  with  Pike,  knows  that  a  man  hard 
at  work  is  a  terribly  exciting  spectacle — to  say  nothing 
of  marrying  being  the  reputed  cause  of  the  phenomenon. 
As  I  said,  winter  snowed  and  froze  itself  out  and  early 
spring  came  edging  her  shy  way  in,  and  as  Consolidated 
Pike  had  worried  itself  into  a  state  of  energetic  lassitude 
over  Dud  and  his  future  "woman"  with  no  tangible  re- 
sults, whittledom  was  forced  in  self-defense  to  take  up  a 
change  or  undergo  brain  paralysis. 

Those  of  us  who  know  anything  about  politics  in  the 
jurisdiction  of  Judge  Lynch  of  which  I  write,  are  aware 
that  State  and  County  elections  are  held  every  two  years, 
and  that  the  Democratic  party  several  months  prior  to 
the  election  holds  a  sort  of  State  and  County  caucus  in 
which  the  aspirants  for  the  various  offices  are  presented 
to  the  party  and  from  which  number  the  regular  party 
ticket  is  chosen.  These  caucuses  are  called  primaries, 
though  Old  Man  Dodd  always  insisted  on  pronouncing 
them  pri-marys,  emphasizing  and  accenting  the  "marys." 
Each  county  has  its  own  time  for  holding  these  primaries, 
the  earliest  beginning  about  April  and  running  from  that 
on  up  to  late  in  June,  or,  say,  ten  weeks  before  election. 
This  year  of  which  I  write,  to  wit,  the  year  in  which  Dud 


138  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

consummated  his  unheard-of  notion  of  not  letting  well 
enough  alone,  opened  up  the  regular  biennial  campaign. 
Dud  had  worked  hard  and  faithfully  on  his  repairs,  but 
winter  faded  away  and  found  some  several  hundred  dol- 
lars more  outlay  needed,  and  our  friend  Trenome's  purse 
in  a  drawn-up  condition  as  though  one  of  Uncle  Alec 
McNeil's  shakers  had  struck  it.  Dud  took  an  evening 
off  to  cogitate  over  the  situation,  and  summed  it  up  con- 
fidentially to  a  pile  of  blazing  logs  in  his  fireplace,  thus : 
"Tve  done  fairly  well  considerin'  I'd  all  but  let  the  old 
place  rot — but  not  nigh  as  well  as  I  ought  to  and  mean 
to  do.  There  ain't  no  use  talkin',  this  farm's  got  to  be 
kep'  up,  and  if  I  don't  switch  it  back  onto  the  main  line 
durin'  this  spurt,  Lord  knows  when  I'll  feel  in  the  mood 
agin;  but  my  money's  runnin'  low  an'  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
buy  lumber  on  credit  from  Hicks.  It's  tough  enough  to 
have  to  buy  from  him  anyhow,  an'  if  there  was  another 
mill  nearer  'n  a  day's  haulin',  blamed  if  I'd  fool  with 
him;  but  so  long  as  I'm  payin'  cash,  all  the  Hickses  on 

earth  can't  beat  me.     I  could  mortgage,  but  that's  h 1 

agin !  and  if  the  old  place  goes  under  a  mortgage  once, 
it's  good-bye  Bill,  don't  stay  long.  It  took  Mother  Doyle 
fourteen  years  'n  more  to  get  over  old  man  Doyle's  debts, 
and  I  never  saw  the  day  I  had  her  stayin'  qualities.  No, 
by  ganny,  I  won't  mortgage,  'n  I  won't  buy  lumber  on 
time,  'n  I  won't  stop  on  these  repairs  an'  new  fences  'n 
things.  I  could  let  out  ^  couple  o'  hands  an'  go  back  be- 
hind old  Beck  myself,  but,  pshaw!  that  'd  throw  these 
jobs  'way  behind,  an'  besides,  those  niggers  have  been 
here  time  out  o'  mind  'n  it  'd  be  a  shame  to  let  'em  go. 
No!  by  ganny,  I'm  here  to  tell  you,  I'll  not  have  any  o' 
the  Trenome  hands  lose  what's  as  much  a  home  to  them 
as  me ;  an'  yet  I'm  goin'  to  finish  this  work  'ginst  plantin' 


HER?  139 

time  if  I  have  to  sop  sorgum  the  rest  o'  the  year.  Pshaw ! 
Here  I  am  nigh  thirty  an'  lettin'  the  best  improved  farm 
in  Pike  rot  away,  jes'  doin'  nothin'  but  talkin'  politics  up 
at  town  'n  swingin'  corners  o'  nights  with  a  passel  o3  gals 
who  ain't  deuce  high  to  me,  nor  never  will  be." 

It  was  pretty  plain  from  that  last  remark  that  Consoli- 
dated Pike  had  been  eminently  incorrect  on  the  petticoat 
question,  or,  at  least,  in  so  far  as  their  matrimonial  prob- 
abilities went. 

"I  have  it !"  exclaimed  Dud,  resuming  his  soliloquy 
after  a  long  silence.  "Speakin'  o'  politics,  by  ganny,  the 
race  for  Sheriff's  open  this  year,  and  I've  got  the  thing 
for  the  askin'.  Lessee — I  can  clear  twelve  hundred  a 
year  anyhow  out  of  it,  'n  that's  way  yonder  more  'n  I'll 
need  to  finish  up  on;  pshaw!  I  can  borrow  easily  up  to 
the  City  on  the  strength  o'  the  race  'n  keep  right  ahead. 
I've  sorter  had  a  notion  o'  runnin'  for  that  or  something 
anyhow.  The  canvass  won't  cost  me  anything  worth 
speakin'  of,  an'  what  with  Mat's  friends  an'  my  friends, 
why,  even  if  I  have  an  opponent,  or  a  couple  of  'em,  I'm 
safe.  I'll  promise  Tobe  Ott  the  deputyship,  'n  that  '11 
land  the  Ott  gang,  an',  by  ganny,  those  scoundrels  come 
mighty  nigh  bein'  the  balance  o'  power.  Yes,  sir,  I'll 
try  it  a  crack;  I'll  jes'  write  up  a  little  talk  to-night  an' 
put  her  in  next  Saturday's  paper.  Why,  pshaw! — won- 
der I  hadn't  thought  of  that  sooner — I  always  hankered 
after  something  public-like,  anyhow,  and  then,  I'll  go  at 
readin'  law  right  away,  an'  by  the  end  of  my  first  term  I 
can  be  admitted,  'n  then  another  two  years  'n  I'll  give 
'em  a  run  for  prosecutin'  attorney — I  can  do  it,  why  not? 
Mat  always  said  I  was  a  natural  born  lawyer,  'n  time  I'm 
prosecutin'  attorney,  why,  I  can  feel  justified  in  askin' 
her." 


I4O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Her!  So  it  was  a  her,  after  all,  who  had  caused  all 
that  hammering  and  slashing,  and  sawing.  But  what 
her?  By  ganny!  as  Dud  would  say,  I  don't  know.  He 
hinted  plainly  enough  that  he  had  no  connubial  designs 
on  those  countless  Pike  girls  with  whom  he  had  swung 
divers  corners;  so  I  can't  imagine  who  he  was  driving  at. 
It  may  have  been  some  Illinois  her — Dud  was  up  at  Cairo 
once;  it  may  have  been  some  her  up  at  the  City — Dud 
took  his  cotton  up  himself  every  fall;  it  may  have  been — 
no  telling  who. 

One  thing  I  do  know — he  swung  no  more  corners — 
"quit  'em  cold,"  as  the  boys  say,  and  all  the  many  hers 
who  he  had  danced  and  flirted  with  for  miles  around, 
allowed  that  "Dud  Trenome's  done  went  with  that  poky 
old  Mat  Doyle  till  he  jes'  ain't  fit  for  nothin' !" 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

DEACON — DOYLE — DUTY. 

THE  following  Saturday  Pike  received  Dud's  "talk," 
and  that  sanctified  portion  of  the  community,  represented 
and  condensed  in  the  person  of  Deacon  Setton  Hicks,  took 
his  paper  over  to  the  office  and  gave  the  "talk"  the  sort  of 
perusal  Napoleon  would  have  probably  bestowed  on  Wel- 
lington's plan  of  Waterloo.  Though  the  Deacon  was  dis- 
tinctively a  consistent  member  of  the  Commercial 
Hickses,  yet  he  could,  when  occasion  demanded,  apply  his 
"deadfall"  principles  to  politics  with  full  as  much  ability 
as  to  sawmilling,  provided,  of  course,  that  politics  were 
in  anywise  connected  with  his  profit  and  loss  account; 
and  so  long  as  we  are  on  politics,  I  think  right  here 
and  now  a  simple  statement  of  facts  regarding  the  Deacon's 
affairs  will  assist  you  in  determining  that  meek  man's 
precise  status  relative  to  Dud's  candidacy.  The  Deacon, 
as  was  remarked  some  chapters  back,  had  been  up  to  date 
prevented,  by  a  combination  of  untoward  circumstances, 
from  clipping  his  quota  of  Pike  wool,  and  he  had  for  a 
long  while  been  cudgeling  the  very  sanctimoniousness 
out  of  his  wits  to  arrive  at  the  goal  of  all  the  Hickses 
by  a  short  cut.  He  was,  as  we  know,  in  arrears  on 
his  machinery,  and  his  account  with  the  jobbers  up  at 
the  City  had  been,  like  Uncle  Sanl,  steadily  expanding 
along  lines  alarmingly  inconsistent  with  mutual  good  will 
between  expander  and  expandee.  In  fact,  the  jobbers 

[Hi] 


142  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

had  begun  to  insinuate  that  attachments  would  shortly 
issue  unless  something  substantial  was  forthcoming,  and, 
to  sum  up,  in  short,  our  good  brother  had  arrived  at  that 
interesting  juncture  where  he  must  do  or  be  done. 

Mat  Doyle  had  been  of  age  some  years,  and  Mother 
Doyle  had  long  since  turned  over  the  entire  business  man- 
agement of  the  farm  to  her  son.  Deacon  Hicks  knew, 
as  who  did  not?  that  the  Doyle  place  could  readily  find 
an  advancement  up  at  the  City.  Aside  from  its  being 
extra  quality  soil  and  free  of  any  encumbrance,  it  always 
presented  a  spick  and  span  appearance — solid  fences, 
neatly  whitewashed  outhouses,  and  the  dwelling  ever 
seemingly  fresh  painted. 

Now,  the  Deacon's  desire  had  been,  and  still  was,  to 
induce  Mat  to  raise  a  loan  on  the  farm,  said  loan,  of 
course,  to  find  its  immediate  way  into  the  Hicks  till. 
The  reader  will  doubtless  ask  himself  what  the  Deacon 
was  to  give  as  an  equivalent;  that  is,  the  reader  who  has 
never  run  afoul  of  Hicksism  will  ask  himself  that  absurd 
question.  As  a  matter  of  cold,  stubborn  fact,  the  Deacon 
was  to  give  no  equivalent;  apparently,  though,  he  was  to 
be  conferring  upon  Mat  and  the  Doyleses  a  truly  Christian 
favor  without  hope  of  ear-thly  reward.  Mat  placed  im- 
plicit reliance  on  Hicks,  as  did  Mother  Doyle,  and  even 
Betty.  Betty's  intuition  usually  landed  her  on  the  cor- 
rect side  of  people's  characters,  but  she  exercised  her  in- 
tuitive powers  only  "by/and  with  the  advice  and  consent" 
of  Mat.  Her  confidence  in  Mat's  infallibility  of  judg- 
ment was  equal  to  Lem  Jucklin's  "kiver  to  kiver"  faith 
in  the  Book,  and  unless  Mat  was  silent  concerning  such 
and  such  a  person's  comings  and  shortcomings,  or,  which 
was  rarely  the  case,  was  outspoken  concerning  the  short- 
comings, of  the  party  in  question,  why,  his  confiding  sis- 


DEACON — DOYLE— DUTY.  143 

ter  took  it  for  granted  that  there  were  no  flaws  to  be 
found.  In  the  Deacon's  case,  Mat  was  ready  to  sound 
his  praises  to  the  echo  on  the  briefest  kind  of  notice,  and 
hence,  I  repeat,  even  Betty  accepted  him — sore  eyes,  num- 
ber nines,  double  Ee's  and  all.  The  Deacon  would  have 
belied  the  most  unimpeachable  traditions  of  his  ilk  had 
he,  being  aware  of  the  esteem  in  which  the  Doyleses  held 
him,  been  content  to  take  passive  cognizance  of  it  and  not 
coin  his  knowledge  into  tangible  benefits.  Even  had  he 
wanted  his  present  inducement — I  may  say  necessity — 
to  realize  a  bonus  (or  malus)  from  some  source  other 
than  two  b'heavies  and  one  b'tens,  his  very  nature  would 
bave  prompted  him  to  turn  the  Doyle  friendship  to  good 
account.  How  much  more,  then,  was  the  incentive  when 
he  cast  up  results  and  found  himself,  after  nearly  a  score 
of  years  in  Pike,  but  a  scant  fathom  further  financially 
than  the  carpet-bag  condition  in  which  he  had  first  set  sail 
for  that  ill-fated  burg. 

The  holy  man's  plan  for  realizing  the  desired  testi- 
monial out  of  the  Doyleses  was  a  simple  one,  being  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  an  offer  to  Mat  of  an  undivided 
one-half  interest  in  the  Setton  Hicks  Lumber  Co.,  with 
all  profits  and  proceeds  thereunto  accruing  in  the  regular 
line  of  two  b'beavies  and  so  on  . 

But — drat  these  luts,  thought  Setton — but  simple,  and 
"child-like  and  bland"  though  this  appeared,  a  proper 
lever  had  long  been  wanting  to  bring  about  its  consum- 
mation. 

Mat  was  conservative  concerning  his  own  affairs,  and 
far  more  so  when  the  issues  affected  his  mother's  prop- 
erty, and  while  not  of  that  nice,  calm  'let-well-enough- 
alone"  class,  still  he  believed  in  having  a  non-slipable 
grip  on  better  before  letting  well  enough  go.  He  was 


144  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

at  present  making  a  comfortable  living  on  the  farm  for 
all  hands,  from  old  Ball  up;  he  had  never  dabbled  in 
what  your  city  man  is  pleased  to  call  money  making 
schemes ;  he  was  single,  with  no  prospect  of  any  Pike  girl 
ever  engaging  his  affections,  and  not  the  remotest  likeli- 
hood of  his  ever  going  out  of  Pike  wife-hunting;  and, 
above  all,  it  was  dollars  to  doughnuts  (or  goobers,  if 
those  odds  don't  suit  you)  that  if  any  venture,  however 
promising,  required  the  borrowing  of  money,  he  would 
drop  it  forthwith.  All  these  obstacles  showed  our 
Brother  Setton,  that  while  it  was  the  simplest  thing 
imaginable  to  offer  Mat  a  partnership,  getting  him  to  buy 
it  was  the  epidermus  removing  rub. 

It  would  never  do  for  him  to  let  the  Doyleses,  or  any 
one  else,  know  that  he  was  anxious  to  sell  a  share  of  the 
business — Mat  might  be  fooled  as  to  the  Deacon,  because 
he  had  a  limited  knowledge  of  men;  but  he'd  go  slow 
on  any  business  proposition,  because  Mother  Doyle  had 
long  since  taught  him  that  money  affairs  required  more 
watching  than  even  Uncle  Alec  McXeil — which  was  cli- 
maxing comparisons. 

At  seasonable  opportunities  Hicks  had  hinted  enough 
to  the  Doyleses,  and  especially  Mat,  to  let  them  know  that 
his  mill  was  a  paying  industry,  equal,  if  not  superior,  to 
the  Hottentot  Pie  and  Bible  Fund,  of  which  he  was  the 
local  custodian;  now  and  then  when  Mat  came  over  for 
a  small  bill  of  dimension  stuff  or  weather-boarding,  he 
would  find  the  Deacon  perusing  an  eloquent  supplication 
from  some  moneyed  would-be  investor  to  be  taken  in 
business,  and  at  such  times  the  good  man  would  say : 

"Matthew — believe  in  charity — all  that  sort — thing, 
but  gracious!  if — was  to  sell  shares — this  mill  to  every- 


DEACON — DOYLE— DUTY.  145 

body — wants — buy  'd  soon  have  none  at  all — none  at  all 
— my  son." 

Thus  had  matters  jogged  at  a  most  discouraging  jog 
for  Setton,  until;  as  we  have  seen,  he  overrode  Dud's  op- 
position and  selected  a  new  teacher  for  the  school.  He 
had  no  particular  object  in  the  selection  other  than  a 
future  small  saving  to  himself,  but  after  he  had  seen  Miss 
Hennon,  and  when  Mother  Doyle  in  getting  her  address 
from  him,  had  stated  for  what  purpose  she  wished  it,  a 
train  of  thought  freighted  with  the  most  sugared  specula- 
tions whizzed  through  the  Hicksonian  cranium.  Small 
wonder  that  he  smiled,  laughed  and  roared  when  Pike's 
"cutter"  joke  at  Mat's  expense  reached  his  capacious  ears. 
He  rightly  (and  righteously,  no  doubt)  felt  a  proprietary 
interest  in  that  joke,  and  after  his  glee  had  to  some 
extent  subsided,  he  set  about  turning  it  to  advantage  on 
his  main  plan,  or,  in  other  words,  making  a  practical  joke 
out  of  it. 

Mat  taught  a  class  in  the  Sunday-school  of  which 
Hicks  was  superintendent,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  the 
zealous  Deacon  had  Miss  Hennon  teaching  a  class  also. 
He  cultivated  the  little  teacher  with  a  most  exemplary 
vim,  and  while  pointing  out  to  her  the  imworthiness  and 
wickedness  of  Beardless  Pike  and  the  machiavellian  pro- 
pensities of  our  good  friend  Dud,  did  not  neglect  to  ex- 
patiate on  the  virtues  of  our  other  good  friend  Mat — doing 
it  all  with  a  master  hand,  with  no  trace  of  match-mak- 
ing apparent,  and,  in  fact,  glorying  in  Mat's  confirmed 
bachelorhood.  In  that  connection  he  frequently  told 
Miss  Hennon,  in  strictest  confidence,  that  he  only  feared 
one  thing,  viz.,  Mat's  friendship  for  "that  dangerous 
Trenome,"  and  the  corresponding  evil  influence  "that  dan- 
gerous Trenome"  was  liable  to  exert.  If  he  could  bring 


146  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

himself  to  hope  that  Mat's  influence  would  outweigh  it  and 
in  the  fullness  of  time  recall  "that  dangerous  Trenome" 
from  the  path  of  perverseness,  it  would  be  different;  but 
how  could  he,  when  "that  dangerous  Trenome"  had 
served  on  the  School  Board  with  him,  the  Deacon,  two 
terms  straight  hand  running,  and  was  now  as  much  a  fol- 
lower of  Satan  as  ever?  How  could  Mat  succeed  where 
Hicks  failed?  Yea,  verily,  how!  So,  said  the  trusting 
man,  there  was  naught  for  it  but  to  hope  that  the  inter- 
vening hand  of  a  kind  Providence  would  'ere  long  sep- 
arate the  wheat  from  the  tares — put  "that  dangerous 
Trenome"  on  the  Belzeebub  Through  Line  and  Matthew 
on  the  New  Jerusalem  Limited.  He  never  hinted  this 
hope  to  Mat,  and  as  winter  passed  away  and  Dud's  visits 
to  Pike  grew  fewer  and  further  between,  the  Deacon  sup- 
posed that  the  schoolmarm  was  as  apt  a  pupil  as  a  teacher, 
and  rejoiced  accordingly;  he  had  never  had  a  friend  him- 
self and  had  never  been  one  (which  was  the  reason  he 
never  had  one),  and  hence  he  couldn't  be  expected  to  know 
that  friendship,  like  the  Century  plant,  lives  and  flour- 
ishes though  it  may  bloom  at  ever  so  rare  intervals — it 
flashes  out  when  needed,  and  that's  all  true  friends  want 
— the  knowledge  that  the  flame  is  there  and  will  burst 
forth  in  all  its  pristine  brightness  at  the  touch  of  a  kin- 
dred spark. 

So  it  was  with  feelings  of  pious  exultation  that  the 
lowly  brother  read  DUQ'S  "talk"  and  saw  in  it  every  sign 
of  fair  sailing  for  the  Hicksonian  bark.  He  took  the 
paper  over  to  the  Doyleses,  and,  seeing  Mat  in  the  barn- 
yard, bustled  up  the  lane,  agitation  portrayed  in  every 
motion  of  his  Adonis-like  figure;  for  he  determined  to 
prosecute  the  campaign  now  with  undisguised  aggressive- 
ness. 


DEACON— DOYLE— DUTY.  147 

"Morning,  Matthew — all  well — Good!  Seen — paper? 
No?  Never — more  surprised  in — life;  picked — paper  up 
just  now — saw  this — here — read  it — guess,  though,  you 
knew — it." 

Mat's  eye  settled  where  the  Deacon's  finger  indicated  and 
he  said  slowly : 

"No,  sir;  what  is  it?  'To  the  voters  of  Pike  County: 
Recognizing  your  right  to  know  the  principles  of  those  who 
desire  to  serve  you,  I  shall,  in  making  this  formal  an- 
nouncement of  my  candidacy  for  Sheriff,  acquaint  you  with 
my  views  on  questions  concerning  our  common  interest/ — 
no,  Deacon,  I  hadn't  heard  of  it  before — who  is  it  ?" 

"See — see,"  said  Hicks,  pointing  to  the  signature. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mat,  "it's  Dud.  Huh!  That  is  a 
sort  of  a  surprise." 

"Surprise !     Should  say  so  /     With  his  views,  too." 

"Well,  I  hope  he'll  get  it." 

"Matthew,  you — you  can't  be  serious  ?" 

"I  most  certainly  am ;  why  not  ?" 

"Knowing  his  views  like  you  do  ?" 

"Why,  I  never  knowed  nothin'  wrong  with  his  views  on 
politics;  'course,  I  ain't  no  politician,  but  they  always 
struck  me  as  correct.  True,  Dud's  a  leetle — uh — as  you 
might  say,  liberal  'bout  religion,  but  he'd  make  a  whoppin' 
fine  Sheriff;  he'd  arrest  the — old  Scratch  if  necessary." 

"Yes — and  lynch — negro,  too  !" 

"Oh !"  ejaculated  Mat,  smiling,  "that's  what  you  mean, 
is  it,  Deacon?  Well,  huh!  you  know  Dud's  bark's  worse 
'n  his  bite." 

"Tut,  tut,  Matthew — he's  rabid  on  lynching — rabid — 
perfectly  rabid — yes,  sir !" 

"He'd  do  his  duty  as  Sheriff." 

"Mean  to  say  he'd  protect — negro  from — mob  ?" 


148  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Oh — be  sure — to  be  sure — guess  he'd  say  he  would  now 
— since — running  for  office." 

"Deacon  Hicks,"  remarked  Mat,  respectfully,  but  none 
the  less  firmly,  "if  you  mean  by  that  that  he'd  lie  to  gain 
office,  you  don't  know  him.  When  Dud  Trenome  lies  I'll 
be  ready  to  join  the  P.  P.'s !" 

"Very  good,  Matthew — very  good ;  never  said  he'd  lie — 
not  at  all — not  at  all — Matthew;  believe  he'll  stick  to 
principles — " 

"Well,  has  he  put  any  wrong  principles  in  his  'nounce- 
ment?"  (Mat  always  used  a  broad  ending.) 

"Xo — no — good — far  as  they  go — but  aren't  all  there — 
left  out  the  most  important — never  mentioned  lynching." 

"Lynchin's  not  of  so  much  account  here ;  Pike  ain't  had 
one  in  nigh  ten  years." 

"Don't  alter — principle,  Matthew — not — particle — not 
— particle.  Trenome  is  out  and  out — favor  of  it." 

"Oh,  huh!  Deacon  Hicks,  'z  I  said,  Dud's  powerful 
keen  on  the  bark." 

"Very  well — very  well.  I'll  put — question  squarely  to 
him;  you  abide  by — answer?" 

"Me?     Of  course." 

That  was  enough  for  Hicks.  The  next  week's  paper  con- 
tained a  request  for  information  as  to  Dud's  precise  posi- 
tion with  reference  to  mob  law.  The  question  was  put 
unequivocally,  thus : 

"Mr.  Trenome:  If  elected  Sheriff,  and  at  any  time  a 
negro  accused  of  rape  should  be  in  your  charge,  would  you 
protect  him  from  violence  ? 

"Signed — A  VOTER." 


DEACON — DOYLE — DUTY.  149 

Dud's  answer  was  even  more  to  the  point.  After  re- 
marking that  he  felt  commiseration  for  a  voter  who  was 
ashamed  to  sign  his  name,  he  declared  as  follows : 

"If  I  am  elected  Sheriff,  and  a  man  (black  or  white) 
against  whom  there  is  the  charge  of  rape,  is  placed  in  my 
keeping,  and  that  man  has  been  apprehended  in  open 
flight,  I  shall  not  withhold  him  from  any  vengeance  the 
outraged  citizens  of  this  county  see  fit  to  visit  upon  him. 
In  the  presence  of  such  a  fiend  and  such  a  crime,  law  can 
know,  nor  ought  to  know,  no  moderation.  All  the  statutes 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  this  crime  outlaws  its  per- 
petrator, and  a  trial  would  but  mock  Justice,  Mercy  and 
God  Himself." 

Hicks  hugged  Dud's  answer  to  his  bosom  and  hied  him 
jubilantly  to  Mat.  When  Mat  had  finished  reading  his 
old  friend's  reply,  he  murmured  simply : 

"Dud's  wrong."  Then  he  stooped  down,  picked  up  a 
twig  and  commenced  chewing  on  it,  and  Hicks,  not  deem- 
ing it  wise  to  push  matters  just  then,  clapped  him  as  high 
up  on  the  shoulders  as  he  could  reach,  and  said: 

"Keep — paper  and  think  it  over;  see  him — maybe  you 
can  change  him — see  him  to-morrow — holy  Sabbath  may 
have — softening  effect  on  him — and  come  over  to — office 
next  Monday.  Must  hurry  back — several  cars  lumber — 
shipped  this  evening;  business  keeps  me  tied  down — tied 
down — more  orders  than — fill  for — month.  Good  day; 
good  day,  Matthew — come  Monday — we'll  talk — over;  no 
matter  how  busy  I  am — matter — this  sort  is  one — duty — 
duty,  my  son — duty  for  you — me — all  of  us,  and  Mat- 
thew, when  duty — involved,  yon  stop — plows,  I  stop — saws, 
and — do — your — duty — eh  ?" 

"I've  always  tried  to  see  it  that  way,  Deacon." 


I5O  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"That  you  have,  Matthew — that  you  have;  ever  was—- 
man of  duty,  you  are  him/' 

"Every  one  ought  to  be,  Deacon  Hicks,  an*  no  cause  to 
brag  for  bein'  one.  When  duty's  done,  we've  only  done 
our  duty/* 

"Yes — and  when  duty's  done,  all's  done,  my  son." 

And  Deacon  Setton  Hicks  left  Mat,  firm  in  the  resolve 
that  if  he  didn't  make  young  Doyle  see  his  duty  in  the  issue 
at  stake  through  Hicksonian  spectacles,  he'd  kick  himself 
ignominiously  out  of  the  ranks  of  Hickses. 


- 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DUTY 

A  FAMOUS  old  sea  dog  said  on  a  memorable  occasion, 
"England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty," — a  reason- 
able enough  expectation,  when  every  man's  duty  was  merely 
to  chop  away  until  he  was  in  turn  chopped  away. 

This  thing  of  duty  reminds  me  of  a  song  I  once  heard, 
in  which  the  singer  discussed  the  merits  of  a  certain  bull- 
dog, and  stated,  that  regarding  his  sociability  he,  the  dog, 
was  all  right  (a  good  fellow)  when  you  knew  him,  but  you 
had  to  know  him  first. 

The  performance  of  duty  is  the  next  easiest  thing  to 
tumbling  off  a  log,  provided  you  know  what  your  duty  is. 
You  will  likely  say,  "Well,  haven't  we  had  duty  ding- 
donged  in  our  ears  enough  to  know  what  it  is  by  now  ?"  and 
the  answer  must  surely  be,  "We  have  that!"  First  and 
last,  every  pen  that  ever  existed  has  scratched  off  more  or 
less  theories  anent  duty,  and  bards  have  made  it  the  watch- 
word of  Parnassus.  But  for  all  that,  how  many  of  us 
know  our  duty? 

We  can  point  out  our  neighbors'  duty  easy  enough — 
can  tell  him  just  what  to  do  and  just  how  to  do  it — and 
then  we  can  go  back  to  our  own  homes  and  see  wrong — 
wrong — wrong  in  every  nook  and  cranny.  The  Deacon 
said  truly  (though  possibly  he  didn't  mean  it),  "when 
duty's  done,  all's  done,"  and  we  may  add,  when  duty's  done 
wrong,  all's  done  wrong.  Sure,  it's  hard  to  believe  that 


152  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

such  a  simple  thing  as  duty  can  be  done  wrong,  and  exam- 
ples to  bear  out  and  bolster  up  our  faith  come  trooping  in. 
For  instance,  it's  the  duty  of  the  picket  to  stay  on  guard 
until  relieved — and  he  stays.  It's  the  duty  of  the  sailor  to 
stay  on  watch  until  relieved,  and  he  stays.  It's  the  duty  of 
the  policeman  to  stay  on  his  beat  until  relieved — and  he 
stays,  even  though  somnolently,  as  Puck,  Judge,  et  al  aver. 

In  short,  it's  everybody's  duty  to  keep  their  posts  until 
relieved,  albeit  some  may  only  be  relieved  by  the  under- 
taker. That  is  undeniable.  But  how  about  taking  the 
posts  ?  Man  usually  does  the  duty  connected  with  his  par- 
ticular post,  and  as  Mat  remarked,  no  extraordinary  credit 
to  him  for  so  doing;  but  does  he  fulfill  his  primary  duty 
in  selecting  the  post  ?  Once  on  the  post,  he  is  no  longer  a 
free  agent,  and  he  performs  his  duty  under  orders.  Before 
that,  however,  he  is  master  of  his  destiny,  or  as  much  mas- 
ter as  fate  and  environment  allow  him  to  be,  and,  it  occurs 
to  me,  that  first  and  foremost,  his  greatest  duty  is  to  select 
that  post  which  conforms  best  to  his  own  and  society's 
weal;  and  so  far  as  exterior  influences  permit,  he  should 
make  it  a  choice  of  a  clear  head  and  a  good  heart  working 
in  unison,  and  never  one  or  the  other  singly. 

I  once  saw  an  illustrated  play-bill  of  a  war  drama  (one 
of  those  shows  where  everything  is  real  but  the  acting), 
and  the  leading  picture  represented  a  youth  starting  to  the 
front  and  shouting  back  to  his  weeping  mother,  "Duty  calls 
me,  I  must  go!  !  !" 

That  was  very  patriotic  and  well  calculated  to  bring 
down  the  galleries ;  but  seriously  now,  had  our  young  hero 
satisfied  himself  in  which  direction  duty  was  calling  ?  Had 
he  gotten  duty  confounded  with  glory?  Had  he  grabbed 
his  old  muzzle-loader  before  there  was  any  necessity  for 
abandoning  the  plow  ? 


DUTY.  153 

Victor  Hugo  gives  us  an  inspiring  picture  of  those  holy 
women  who  rendered  perpetual  adoration  unto  the  Deity. 
Those  nuns  had  gone  at  the  call  of  the  highest  duty,  the 
soul's  duty — but  had  they  gone  in  the  right  direction? 
Had  they  mistaken  fanaticism  for  fervor?  Did  they  ex- 
pect to  help  society  more  by  getting  out  of  it  than  by  stay- 
ing in  ? 

The  crusaders,  in  their  fruitless  pilgrimages  let  home 
and  country  go  to  the  dickens,  and  spent  years  upon  years 
slaying  swarthy  strangers  against  whom,  in  the  language 
of  Twain,  "they  could  not  have  reasonably  had  the  slightest 
grudge."  Did  duty  call  them  to  an  empty  sepulchre  rather 
than  to  the  examples  of  Him  who  once  occupied  it. 

The  young  officer  off  to  the  war  takes  unto  himself  a 
bride,  who  on  the  morow  must  bid  him  perhaps  a  last 
adieu.  Eomantic, — hilariously  so,  when  the  enemy  are  pick- 
ing off  shoulder  straps  with  ghastly  sang  froid.  Does  duty 
tell  him  to  mix  Boots  and  Saddles  and  Taps  with  Mendels- 
sohn's Wedding  March,  and  deliberately  hand  over  a 
widow  and  mayhap  an  orphan  to  society? 

We  tie  ourselves  up  with  some  hobby — use  duty's  shafts 
for  a  double  yoke,  and  start  pell-mell  down  the  road  of 
moral  philosophy  for — God  knows  where !  When  glory, 
romance,  love,  fanaticism  or  anything  else  approaches  the 
guard  lines  of  duty,  those  good  sentries  of  the  brain,  Kea- 
son,  Judgment  and  Caution,  should  challenge  promptly 
and  decisively,  or  the  camp's  taken,  and  generally  sacked. 

This  is  no  essay  on  duty,  nor  any  attempt  at  one; 
it  is  simply  the  sum  and  substance  of  Mat's  meditations 
the  Sunday  afternoon  he  returned  from  Dud's.  He  had 
spent  the  forenoon  in  a  bootless  endeavor  to  bring  Dud 
around  on  lynching.  He  had  probed  to  the  pith  and 
heart — the  very  marrow — of  the  subject.  Had  advanced 


154  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

the  most  unassailable  logic  to  convince  his  friend.  Had 
forced  him  to  admission  after  admission;  and,  finally, 
when  he  had  come  to  a  stop,  Dud  poised  his  fist  above 
the  tab*e  (they  had  just  sat  down  to  dinner),  and 
declared : 

"Granting  everything  you've  said,  Mat;  granting  the 
Constitutional  right  of  the  accused  to  a  fair  trial;  grant- 
ing that  no  power  save  the  law  can  prescribe  capital 
punishment,  and  nobody  but  its  officers  can  administer  it; 
granting  that  illegal  executions  shake  the  basic  principles 
of  liberty,  and  that  none  are  safe  where  the  mob  rules; 
granting  that  lynching  promotes  crime,  and  brutalizes 
those  who  engage  in  it;  granting  that  innocent  men  are 
sometimes  its  victims;  granting  that  lynching  for  one 
crime  leads  the  way  to  lynchin'  for  any  crime;  granting 
that  it  keeps  alive  sectional  discord;  granting  that  it 
enables  the  low  whites  to  vent  race  hatred  and  ties  the 
best  citizens'  hands;  granting  everything,  everything! 
and  I  tell  you,  Mat  Doyle,  lyncbln'  will  stop  when  brutes 
are  no  more.  Reason  may  beat  her  intellectual  brow 
into  a  pulp  against  that  rock,  but  she'll  never  budge  it, 
never  while  there's  a  man  to  avenge  this  crime  of  crimes." 

The  fist  came  down  like  a  pile-driver,  and  Dud  called 
into  the  kitchen: 

"Mandy,  bring  in  some  more  biscuits — I  knocked  these  in 
forty  different  directions !"  Then  he  went  on : 

"No,  Mat;  I  don't '-want  you  to  vote  for  me  if  you 
don't  think  I'll  make  a  good  Sheriff " 

"But  I  do  think  you'll  make  a  good  Sheriff." 

"Then  why  all  this  palaver?  Anybody'd  think  I  was 
gettin*  ready  to  join  the  "Republican  party." 

"Just  because  I  think  you'll  make  a  good  Sheriff.  You 


DUTY.  155 

can't  afford  to  mar  your  many  merits  by  advocatin'  law- 
lessness." 

"Oh,  the  devil  an'  Tom  Walker!  Mat,  I'll  bet  that 
buzzard  Hicks  has  been  loadin'  you." 

"Why,  he  is  surprised  at  the  stand  you've  taken." 

"Surprised,  my  grandmother!  He  heard  me  express 
myself  in  Uncle  Alec  McNeil's  store  last  fall.  Surprised ! 
H— 1!  Pshaw,  Mat,  I'll  tell  you  what's  a  fact,  if  you 
want  a  real,  genuine,  long,  lingerin',  lastin',  surprise,  I'm 
surprised  at  your  lettin'  that " 

"Now,  Dud,  I  won't,  I  declare  I  won't " 

"There,  there,  there — I'll  drop  it,  Mat;  I'll  quit  and 
take  it  all  back — but,  by  the  way,  if  it's  a  fair  question, 
didn't  he  write  that  letter  signed  'A  Voter  ?' " 

"Yes — I  thought  you  knew  it." 

"I  haven't  been  off  the  place — but  I  jes  supposed  he 
wrote  it.  Are  you  liable  to  see  him  any  time  before  the 
primaries  ?" 

"I'm  to  see  him  to-morrow." 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  tell  him  if  he's  disposed  to  cham- 
pion his  side,  that  I'll  take  the  stump  with  him  in  a  holy 
minute." 

"All  right,"  answered  Mat,  smiling. 

As  he  rode  back  home  and  indulged  in  the  reflection 
set  forth  at  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  Mat  heaved  a 
heartfelt  sigh  and  muttered:  "Ah-h,  hey-y;  there's  no 
changin'  him,  —  an'  my  principles  are  aginst  it  —  ah-h, 
hey'y;  principle  is  a  powerful  treasure  to  lose, — an'  so  is 
friendship — ah-h,  hey-y." 

The  remainder  of  the  ride  was  a  continuation  of  "ah-h, 
hey-y,'"  and,  in  fact,  he  kept  it  up  the  balance  of  the 
day  and  all  that  night,  until  the  women  folks  asked  him 
at  breakfast  what  was  the  matter,  and  wasn't  he  sick, 


1 56  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

and  divers  other  anxious  queries,  to  all  of  which  they 
received  unenlightening  negatives  and  "huhs."  It  wasn't 
long,  however,  before  the  cause  of  his  worry  found  its 
way  inside  the  Doyle  home,  for  Deacon  flicks,  being 
determined  to  maintain  the  aggressive,  soon  had  the 
county  stirred  up  over  Dud's  "dangerous  platform/"'  and 
drew  the  lines  taut  between  lynching  and  anti-lynching. 
Mat  discussed  the  issue  with  Hicks  on  the  appointed 
Monday,  and  pretty  nearly  every  day  for  a  month  there- 
after, and  still  hung  between  principle  and  friendship. 
He  felt  that  give  up  one  he  must,  and  knowing  him  as 
we  do,  we  can  imagine  the  conflict  of  choice.  Had  their 
convictions  and  positions  been  reversed,  Dud  would  have 
dismissed  it  something  like  this:  "Well,  I  don't  believe 
in  lynching  but,  by  gamy !  I'll  not  go  back  on  a  friend !" 
Illogical,  to  be  sure,  but  "by  gamy !"  lovable.  Mat  was 
cast  in  no  such  mould;  but,  mind  you,  he  was  not  the 
less  Dud's  friend.  Were  it  a  question  of  life  or  death 
the  course  of  action  of  either  one  could  not  be  for  a 
moment  in  doubt.  Were  Dud  weeding  the  corn  and  a 
passerby  to  call,  "Hey,  Dud,  Mat's  dyin',"  Dud  would 
jerk  the  traces  loose,  make  a  bridle  of  his  plow  line,  vault 
astride  the  mule  or  horse,  whichever  he  happened  to  have 
hitched,  and  gallop  across  the  field,  ruining  corn  as  he 
went.  Were  it  Mat,  and  the  passerby  to  call,  "Dud's 
dyin',"  he  would  have  the  traces  undone  without  damage, 
turn  his  horse  and  go  oui  between  the  rows — never  break- 
ing down  a  stalk;  and  he'd  do  it  all  as  quickly  as  Dud, 
if,  not  more  so.  Mat  was  of  the  kind  (rara  avis!)  who 
wait  on  the  approval  of  their  judgment,  and  then  act 
unflinchingly,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten,  successfully, 
unless  all  odds  are  against  them;  whereas,  Dud  was  of 
those  who  inspire  such  lyrics  as  "The  Charge  of  the  Light 


DUTY.  157 

Brigade."  While  Mat  was  spending  sleepless  nights  and 
troubled  days  worrying  over  Dud's  stubbornness,  Dud 
was  telling  all  the  boys  (for  he  had  begun  his  canvass)  : 
"Oh,  Mat's  all  right;  he'll  get  in  line  'ginst  July.  The 
Deacon's  got  Mm  balled  up  now,  but  pshaw !  Mat  Doyle 
vote  ag'inst  your  Uncle  Ral?  Why,  dad  blame  his  old 
long-legged  time,  I'd  take  him  down  an'  duck  him  in  the 
creek  if  he  even  dreamed  of  it !" 

It  is  scarcely  probable  that  Mat  dreamed  of  it,  for, 
as  I  hinted,  he  had  converted  his  sleeping  hours  into  a 
protracted  walking  match  between  himself,  Principle  and 
Friendship;  and  if  the  reader  is  sportily  inclined,  my 
advice  would  be  to  play  Principle  straight  and  hedge 
on  Friendship  for  the  place. 

Mat  delivered  Dud's  defi  to  the  Deacon,  and  the  latter 
concealed  his  spleen  by  throwing  up  his  hands  and 
exclaiming :  "Me  take — stump  !  All — my  time  now — 
good  Lord  doesn't  require — taken  up — business — besides 
too  old — too  old,  my  son — bad  health, — years — toil; 
you  take — stump,  you  are  the  one, — no,  no,  don't  shake — 
head.  Duty  demands — best  we  can  give;  I'll  give — 
pen — money — prayers — best  wishes — all  that  to  defeat 
Satan;  you  give  Matthew  Doyle — Matthew  Doyle,  or  give 
nothin'  my  son — ab-so-lute-ly  no^-ing!  Good — moral 
voters  all  want  you— occasion  wants  you — DUTY — 
wants  yon — calls  you ;  ran,  my  son,  run  !  Spotless  candi- 
date,— spotless  platform, — spotless  voters  ;  result  ? — 
right  up, — wrong  down.  Faith  without  works — bad  as 
vice  versa.  Think  about  it — think  about  it." 

By  these  and  similar  urgings  would  Hicks  seek  to  bring 
Mat  in  biting  distance  of  his  bait;  but  days  passed, 
everybody  else  took  one  side  or  the  other,  and  still  the 


I$8  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

contestants   in   that   nocturnal   walking   match  were   no 
telling  how  far  from  the  home  stretch. 

The  little  teacher  said  to  Mat  one  evening,  as  he  came 
in  dejectedly  from  the  field:  "Mr.  Mat,  why  don't  you 
decide?" 

"Huh?"  he  asked,  surprisedly.  He  had  never  men- 
tioned that  walking  match  to  the  home  folks.  (Miss 
Hennon  had  come  in  under  the  head  of  home  folks  ever 
since  Mother  Doyle  commenced  calling  her  "Laura," 
which  was  a  fortnight,  or  less,  after  her  advent.) 

"Why  don't  you  make  up  your  mind?  When  did  you 
last  look  in  the  glass?" 

"Sunday." 

"Did  you  think  you  looked  like  yourself?" 

"I  reckon  so;  I  don't  know  who  else  I  looked  like." 

"That's  some  consolation  if  you're  aule  to  joke — but  I 
notice  you  didn't  smile.  You've  quit  smiling,  and  I  don't 
believe  you'd  know  how  to  laugh." 

"There  ain't  been  anything  to  laugh  about  lately — at 
least,  around  me." 

"I  know  it — we  all  know  it,  and  we've  all  quit  laugh- 
ing, too.  You'd  better  decide  one  way  or  the  other  before 
we  all  forget  how  to  laugh." 

"You  talk  about  decidin'  like  it  was  as  easy  as — uh — 
plowin'." 

"Plowin*!  My!  If  deciding's  that  hard,  ifs  a  wonder 
you're  alive.  That  morning  you  let  me  plow  a — a " 

"Row?" 

"Yes,  row — you  remember  that  morning?" 

"Umph,  huh  !  The  first  mornin'  we  commenced 
planting" 

"Yes;  well,  I  haven't  got  rid  of  those  blisters  yet — 
see  ?  Ain't  those  nice  hands  for  a  teacher !" 


DUTY.  159 

The  fetching  manner  in  which  she  used  our  ain't  and 
such  like  was  too  much  for  Mat  when  he  was  at  himself — 
let  alone  now. 

"That  was  the  first  time  you  ever  done  any  plowin', 
wasn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  any  big  plowin' — but  I've  fiddled  around  lots  in 
gardens." 

"This  decidin's  the  first  big  decidin'  I  ever  done,  (and 
I  ain't  done  it  yet) — but  I've  fiddled  around  little 
decidin's  off'n  on  all  my  life." 

"And  can't  you  manage  this?" 

"Ain't  yet." 

"Mother  Doyle  always  says  your  judgment  is  surer 
than  an  almanac  and  quicker  than  a  steel  trap." 

"That's  mother;  she's  disqualified  on  account  o'  kin- 
ship." 

"Xot  in  this  case,  Mr.  Mat,  for  I've  been  here  long 
enough  to  know." 

"Much  obliged,  Miss  Hennon,  but  the  facts  are  all 
ag'inst  me." 

"You  mean  because  you're  at  sea  now?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Maybe  you  ain't  at  sea." 

"Huh!  I'm  worse:  I'm  on  an  island,  'n  been  waitin' 
four  weeks  for  a  sail." 

"Maybe  your  eyesight  is  bad." 

"How  so?" 

"Hasn't   Brother  Hicks  showed  you  your — your " 

"My  duty  ?  Yes,  I  reckon  he  has ;  —  my  conscience 
showed  me  that  before  Brother  Hicks  did:  look  here, 
Miss  Hennon,  have  you  ever  had  a  friend?  I  don't  mean 
kinfolks,  or  acquaintances,  or  sweethearts,  or  anything 
like  that,  but  a  friend — a — you  know  what  I  mean." 


l6o  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"Is  your  friend  computable  by  our  standard  of  value 
— by  the  dollar  sign?" 

"Who?    Dud  Trenome?  I  should  reckon  not!" 

"Well,  I  never  had  one.  I'm  from  New  England: 
that's  a  big  manufacturing  country,  but  thov  don't  make 
those  sort  of  friends  there — at  least,  not  for  home  con- 
sumption." 

"Well— uh— then " 

"Then  I  ain't  capable  of  advising  you;  is  that  it?" 

"No-o;  if  you've  got  any  advice,  let  me  have  it — I'm 
plumb  out." 

"You  want  to  decide  on  something?" 

"Been  wantin'  to  a  month." 

"Your  friend  stands  in  the  way?" 

"Xo,  no;  Dud  ain't  standin'  in  the  way  o'  nothin'. 
It's  a  question  between  my  friendship  for  him  an'  my^ 
principle — my  duty." 

"What  is  your  principle?" 

"That  lynchin'  is  wrong." 

"And  your  duty?" 

"Not  to  countenance  it." 

"Well,  I  said  just  now  that  where  I  come  from  they] 
didn't  manufacture  the  kind  of  friends  you  spoke  of; 
but  they  manufacture  people  who'd  never  let  an  easy 
question  like  that — er " 

"Balk 'em?" 

"Yes,  'balk  'em.' " 

"Then  if  lynchin's  an  issue,  I  must,  of  course,  vote 
ag'instit?" 

"Vote  against  it:  run  against  it!  What  is  your  vote 
— one,  a  unit.  What  is  your  influence?  From  all  I've 
heard  around  here,  your  influence  is " 

"Oh,  I  know  all  that,  but " 


DUTY.  l6l 

Mr.  Mat,  I  can't  argue  with  you — you're  a 
regular  Webster  on  argument,  and  even  if  you  weren't, 
I'd  be  unable  to  argue  a  proposition  between  duty  and 
anything  else.  I've  never  encountered  duty  versus  friend- 
ship." 

"Nor  duty  versus  love?" 

"You  musn't  ask  questions,"  she  said,  blushing. 

"Go  on,  then,"  he  murmured,  jotting  down  and  under- 
scoring ihe  blush. 

"Well,  did  you  really  want  my  advice?" 

"It's  all  that'll  pull  me  through." 

"You  won't  follow  it?" 

"See  if  I  don't." 

"Do  you  know  man's  first  duty?" 

"Well— uh— it's— it's— uh " 

"It  is  to  be  true  to  God,  and  God  is  the  Holy  Ghost, 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  is  your  conscience.  If  you  have  a 
friend  who  wouldn't  honor  you  for  doing  that,  even 
though  it  might  possibly  involve  the  loss  to  him  of  an 
office,  then  he's  not  your  friend." 

"Dud  Trenome's  my  friend." 

"None  readier  to  believe  it  than  I,  and  he's  my 
friend  because  he's  yours." 

"And  yet  you  say:     'Kun.'" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I'll  run,  then." 

"For  duty?" 

"Yes — and  you." 

"Oh — oh — oh — ain't  you  ashamed !" 

"Huh!  Miss  Hennon,  if  you — uh,  that  is,  supposin* 
that  I — or,  I  mean " 

"You  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  hear  Betty  put- 
ting supper  on  the  table  and  you  haven't  washed  yet." 


1 62  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

Lippity  clip!  Lippity  clip!  Lippity  clip!  The  stretch 
was  reached.  Jockey  Love  brought  Principle  under 
the  wire  a  handy  winner,  and  Mat,  old,  foolish  Mat,  poor, 
deluded  Mat,  who  didn't  know  what  a  deceiving  jockey 
Love  was,  mistook  a  blush  and  an  "ain't  you  ashamed''* 
for  a  quit-claim  deed. 

Oh,  Duty !  Duty !  Duty !  How  a  little  dash  of  coquetry 
does  befuddle  you! 


: 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

LOVE  AND  PRINCIPLE. 

A  SATURDAY  morning  in  early  March  saw  Old  Man 
Dodd's  post-office  well  filled.  The  farmers  eight  and  ten 
miles  out  were  in,  doing  their  week's  trading  and  getting 
their  corn  ground.  The  other  farmers  nearer  town  were 
in  for  the  latter  purpose.  The  town  folks  were  waiting 
for  the  mail  to  be  opened,  as  the  southbound  had  passed 
some  few  minutes.  Hicks"  hands  were  lounging  about 
the  porch  and  on  the  counter,  the  mill  being  closed  for 
the  day ;  but  over  and  above  all  this — for  it  was  a  common 
enough  thing  to  see  a  crowd  around  the  post-office  Sat- 
urdays,— you  could  easily  tell  that  there  was  a  newsy 
air  astir,  an  air  that  presaged  more  than  the  ordinary 
gossip  or  crop  talk.  The  Pike  Avalanche  was  published 
on  the  morning  in  question,  and  on  that  very 
morning  the  Avalanche  was  looked  to  contain  Mat's 
announcement.  Pike  County  knew  the  announcement 
was  bound  to  come,  because  why?  Hadn't  Hicks  said 
right  out  in  front  of  the  Baptist  Church  that  "Mat  Doyle 
was  the  man  to  make  the  lynchers  walk  straight,"  (a 
very  difficult  thing  to  do  when  they  were  tipsy) ;  hadn't 
TJnqJe  Alec  McXeil  said,  right  behind  his  own  counter, 
that  "it  most  consuredly  looked  like  Mat  was  a-comin' 
out";  hadn't  Old  Man  Dodd  allowed  right  on  his  store 
porch  (which  was  the  only  porch  he  owned),  that  "ther'd 
likely  be  more  besides  Dud  ?fore  the  pri-marys";  and 

[163] 


164  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

hadn't  Dud  himself — oh,  well,  Dud  hadn't,  as  you  might 
say,  said  anything;  but,  then,  everybody  knew  he  had 
had  five  hundred  candidate  cards  printed,  and  that  unpre- 
cedented amount  was  enough  to  clinch  the  matter.  Finally, 
when  Bill  Ott  said,  several  days  before,  that  it  wouldn't 
hurt  to  look  at  next  Saturday's  Avalanche,  it  was  over 
and  done  with. 

So  there  they  waited  around  the  closed  delivery  window 
while  Old  Man  Dodd  went  through  his  exasperatingly 
deliberate  untying,  stamping  and  pigeon-holeing.  There 
they  waited,  some  vainly  trying  to  fan  a  spark  of  interest 
in  sweet-potato  plants  and  early  corn;  some  trying,  as 
vainly,  to  decipher  the  weather  chart;  some  reading,  for 
the  fiftieth  time,  the  mail  route  notice,  or  a  last  year's 
assessors  warning;  Bill  Ott  talking  in  undertones  to  one 
of  the  mill  hands;  another  mill  hand,  a  young  lad  of 
the  Ott  persuasion,  edging  over  the  counter  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  tobacco  caddy,  while  Constable  Tobe  stood 
serenely  unconscious  of  the  said  edging,  and  every  man 
jack  of  them  with  one  eye  on  the  delivery  window  and 
the  other  on  the  front  door.  When  the  old  man  finished 
sorting  out  the  letters  and  came  to  the  papers,  such 
another  nose-flattening  against  the  little  glass  squares  of 
the  mail  boxes  by  those  nearest  the  window.  Those  little 
glass  squares  had  had  all  kinds  of  noses  flattened  against 
them  since  their  introduction  into  the  post-office,  but  it 
was  nothing  compared  to  their  present  trial,  and  that 
they  didn't  give  way  entirely  and  tumble  backwards,  is  a 
great  credit  to  the  gentleman  who  put  them  in  place. 

"Click"  at  last  went  the  shutters,  and  heads  and  hands 
began  to  be  shoved  up  to  the  grating,  which  always  com- 
pletely upset  poor  Old  Man  Dodd  and  rendered  any  com- 
parative alacrity  on  his  part  questionless.  .While  he  was 


LOVE  AND  PRINCIPLE.  165 

trying  to  accommodate  everybody  at  once  and  mildly 
saying,  "Don't  hurry,  one  at  a  time ;  I  don't  believe  there's 
anything  for  you,  Tom — wait  a  minute,  let  me  look  and 
see,"  Hicks  entered.  He  had  scarcely  closed  the  door  and 
advanced  a  pace  or  so  before  a  copy  of  the  Avalanche 
was  past  the  window  and  Bill  Ott  cried:  "There  it  is, 
right  under  Dud's  'nounceraewi — what'd  I  tell  you?" 

"Bead  it,  Bill,"  called  several,  while  Hicks  pursued  his 
way  towards  the  window. 

"Here,  Andy,  you  read  it,  your  eye's  younger  'n  mine." 

Andy  took  the  sheet  with  a  lowering  expression  on 
his  countenance,  and,  glancing  among  the  crowd,  said: 

"Under  Dud's  announcement,  is  it?  That's  where  he'll 
be  at  the  primaries — under  Dud." 

Dud's  friends  laughed  at  this,  and  Andy  ran  his  eye 
over  the  paper  and  began:  "I  hereby  announce  myself 
as  a  candidate  for  Sheriff  of  Pike  County,  subject  to  the 
action  of  the  Democratic  Primaries.  I  don't  ask  the  vote 
of  any  one  advocating  mob  law.  Matthew  S.  Doyle." 

As  Andy  began  to  read,  the  crowd  gave  him  close 
attention,  and  only  those  nearest  the  door  noticed  Dud 
come  in;  he  had  but  an  instant  before  thrown  his  bridle 
over  the  hitching  post. 

"That's  all  right,"  commented  a  listener,  when  the 
reader  finished,  "Mat  ain't  afraid  to  declare  his  platform." 

"Indeed  he  ain't !  Indeed  he  ain't,  sir,"  Hicks  put  in ; 
"good  platform,  too ;  goin'  to  win  on  it,  he !  he !  he ! 
goin'  to  show  'em  a  trick  or  two;  yes,  sir;  show  'em  trick 
or  two." 

"Wa-al,  Brother  Hicks,"  drawled  out  one  of  the  old 
heads,  "don't  see  any  need  o'  Mat  hollerin  'fore  he's  hit. 
Nobody  around  Pike  wants  mob  law — at  least,  I  ain't 
heerd  o'  any." 


166  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"Don't,  eh !  don't,  eh !"  snapped  Brother  Hicks.  "Who's 
nmnin'  for  the  Lynchers,  hey?  Haven't  heard  o'  him,  I 
guess,  eh?" 

"If  you  mean  me,"  called  Dud,  elbowing  his  way  to 
the  rear  of  the  house,  while  Hicks  faced  around  and 
became  very  intent  on  his  mail,  feeling,  the  while,  as  if  a 
lot  of  mice  were  running  up  his  back,  "if  you  mean  me, 
I'm  here  to  tell  you,  Deacon,  and  anybody  else  that  wants 
to  hear  it,  that  any  man  this  side  o'  hell  who  calls  himself 
a  man  will  kill  a  rapist  like  he  would  a  snake.  Talk  about 
your  platforms,  I'm  sailin'  on  that  one  if  anybody  happens 
to  ask  you." 

Then  he  shut  his  mouth  right  close  and  held  it  so,  and, 
getting  his  mail,  left  the  store.  He  had  intended  to  buy 
some  sugar  and  coffee  and  such  like,  but  thought  as  he 
mounted  his  pony,  "I'll  come  back  this  evening  and  do 
my  tradin' — 'twon't  do  to  lose  my  temper  around  that 
psalm  singer." 

Some  of  his  friends  ventured  out  on  the  porch  in  hopes 
of  hearing  him  express  himself  on  Mat's  candidacy,  but  he 
was  riding  down  the  street  at  a  brisk  pace,  and,  to  their 
amazement,  alongside  of  Mat.  One  of  them  poked  his 
head  back  in  and  called  excitedly:  "Boys,  there  they 
go  together." 

All  hands  rushed  for  the  door,  even  Old  Man  Dodd, 
— though  he  never  got  there  until  it  was  over  with, — and 
stood  gazing  after  the  two  horsemen.  Sure  enough,  there 
was  Dud  on  his  pony  and  Mat  on  his  sorrel,  riding  side  by 
side,  as  they  had  done  time  and  again  before.  I  said 
amazement  just  now,  but  when  I  remember  the  expres- 
sion on  the  different  faces,  amazement  strikes  me  as 
rather  tame.  However,  we'll  have  to  be  satisfied  with  it. 
I've  hunted  up  all  the  synonyms  of  that  word,  but  none 


LOVE   AND   PRINCIPLE.  l6/ 

of  them  fit  any  better.  It  is  as  hard  to  convey  an  idea 
of  their  looks  as  it  was  for  them  to  realize  the  sight. 
TJncle  Alee  McNeil's  counters  had  shaken  with  fear  from 
the  thumpings  of  Lynchers'  and  Anti-Lynchers'  fists; 
Old  Man  Dodd's  nail  kegs  had  trembled  with  alarm  as  those 
fists  seemed  ready — in  fact,  anxious — to  commence 
thumping  on  flesh,  instead  of  counters;  the  telegraph 
instruments  in  the  depot  had  rattled  with  fright  when  a 
Lyncher  would  tell  an  Anti-Lyneher-  that  "He  was  here 
to  tell  him.  (the  Anti-Lyncher),  that  he  could  obtain 
complete  and  unequivocal  satisfaction  from  him  (the 
Lyncher),  at  any  time,  Sundays  included,  A.  M.  or  P.  M/' 
and  in  spite  of  all  that,  (not  to  mention  Deacon  Hicks* 
intimation  that  forbearance  occasionally  ceased  to  be  a 
virtue,  nor  Andy's  free-for-all  statement  that  Dud's  polit- 
ical, physical,  moral,  or  mental  match  had  not  yet  arrived 
in  Pike  by  the  usual  route)  ;  in  spite  of  all  that,  and  a 
great  deal  more  besides,  there  before  them  were  "the 
stirrers  of  the  storm,"  riding  as  quietly  away  as  though 
the  "tempest  they  haft  left  behind"  was  not  "yet  with 
lightning  warm.''  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  shake 
its  head  individually  and  collectively,  which  the  crowd 
did,  and  at  last  Bill  Ott  threw  his  stick  down,  shut  up 
his  knife,  tossed  his  quid  away,  gave  Andy  a  barely  per- 
ceptible glance  and  started  off  towards  the  pump,  where 
young  Dodd  joined  him.  The  crowd  re-entered  the  post- 
office  and  Old  Man  Dodd  fetched  a  relieved  sigh,  for  there 
had  been  so  much  counter  thumping  and  "By  Goshing"  of 
late,  he  was  ready  to  hear  that  the  two  aspirants  for 
Sheriff  had  cut  each  other's  throats;  which  would  have 
been  very  un-Democratic,  as  the  old  man  had  never  known 
the  local  Democracy  to  use  their  knives  on  anything  but 
soft  pine.  Our  two  friends,  meanwhile,  rode  on.  Mat 


1 68  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

had  met  Dud  some  twenty-five  yards  from  the  post-office, 
and,  after  shaking  hands  and  turning  about,  said: 

"You  got  in  ahead  of  me.  I  thought  I'd  come  down 
and  get  your  mail  and  bring  it  out;  I  wanted  to  have 
•a  talk  with  you." 

Having  made  a  start,  Mat  stuck  fast,  and  Dud's 
"Howdy''  left  him  in  the  fence  corner  also.  They  passed 
the  Baptist  Church,  the  Methodist  Church,  the  Doyle 
place,  and  turned  into  the  country  road  in  silence,  both 
thinking:  "This  is  the  first  time  since  we  learnt  how  to 
talk  that  we  have  been  together  and  couldn't  say  any- 
thing." 

Dud  busied  himself  reaching  down  and  tightening  his 
saddle  strap,  and  Mat  jerked  a  switch  from  a  roadside 
sapling  and  became  deeply  engaged  in  trimming  it,  peeling 
it.  and.  in  the  end,  "biting  it  to  pieces.  So  they  rode  on, 
nothing  brealdng  the  silence  but  the  striking  of  a  hoof 
against  an  occasional  stone,  or  the  tattoo  of  a  wood- 
pecker on  some  nearby  tree.  Objects  they  had  passed 
often  and  had  scarce  noticed  .for  being  busy  talking,  now, 
perforce,  drew  their  attention.  They  marked  the  varying 
condition  of  the  growing  chops  in  the  roadside  fields,  but 
made  no  comments;  and  if  the  harsh  cry  of  a  hawk  was 
heard  anon,  they  instinctively  turned  their  heads  In  its 
direction,  but  said  naught. 

Ordinarily,  the  distance  out  to  Dud's  was  a  scant 
three  and  a  half  miles,  but  this  mornine  some  necro- 
mancer had  surely  preceded  them  and  trebled  it,  and 
candor  compels  me  to  say  -that  the  length  of  the  ride 
showed  plainer  upon  Mat's  face  than  Dud's.  The  former's 
look  of  trouble  was  strikingly  evident ;  the  latter  was  seri- 
ous, true  enough,  but  serene  withal.  The  only  shade  of 
worry  apparent  on  Dud's  countenance  was  caused  by  the 


LOVE  AND   PRINCIPLE.  169 

inexplicability  of  him  and  Mat  riding  together  'like  two 
inutes. 

At  last  the  Trenome  fence  broke  on  their  sight,  then 
the  Trenome  field,  and  finally  the  Trenome  house,  and 
the  two  turned  into  a  byroad  and  gained  the  gate  in  a 
canter — glad,  heartily  glad,  the  ride  was  over.  Dud  swung 
the  big  gate  around — they  had  stopped  at  the  barnyard — 
and  said: 

"Lemme  put  Charley  up,  Mat;  it's  purty  night  feedin* 
time." 

"'Much  obliged,  Dud,"  he  replied,  in  a  quicker  flow  of 
words  than  was  usual  with  him,  "I'll  just  turn  him  loose 
in  the  lot — can't  stay  overly  long — got  a  little  work  down 
in  the  lower  field  that  ought  to  be  looked  after." 

"Well,  you  know  best,  old  boy,"  spoke  Dud,  removing 
his  saddle  and  giving  Betty's  pony  a  gentle  slap;  "you 
know  best;  but  it's  purty  warm  to  be  a-ridin'  back,  'ginst 
evenin'.  But  you  know  best,  old  feller,  you  know  best," 
he  suddenly  repeated,  "come  in." 

Mat  looked  decidedly  as  if  he  didn't  know  whether  he 
knew  best  or  not,  and  Dud's  repeating  it  made  it  seem 
still  more  doubtful.  Dud  was  always  so  ready  to  argue 
with  Mat  on  any  point  just  for  the  "fun  o'  seein'  the  old 
lawyer  get  wrought  up,"  that  this  continued  "you  know 
best,  you  know  best,"  made  Mat  feel  guilty.  Guilty  about 
what?  Why,  bless  your  soul,  guilty  about  a  guilty  con- 
science. It  grated  on  his  ears  worse  than  if  Dud  had 
said,  "You're  a  doggoned,  lop-sided,  dod-gasted  liar — you 
don't  know  best !"  But  nothing  of  that  sort  was  stated 
either  directly  or  through  the  different  rules  of  rhet- 
oric. When  Dud  said  "come  in,"  they  both  started  in. 
Arriving  there,  Dud  unlocked  the  door,  and,  bringing  out 
a  couple  of  chairs,  said: 


I7O  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"Sit  down,  old  boy,  or  maybe  you'd  like  a  drink — sit 
down,  anyhow,  and  Fll  get  a  bucket/' 

"No,  no,  Dud;  gimme  the  bucket;  you  go  ahead  and 
light  your  pipe,  old  fellow/'  and  away  went  Mat  to  the 
well. 

Dud  paused  while  .filling  his  pipe,  and  a  faint  twinkle 
came  in  his  honest  eyes.  It  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and 
after  lighting  up  he  moved  a  chair  to  a  cool  angle  of 
the  porch  and  sat  down.  This  Chesterfieldian  politeness 
and  harmony  were  too  much  for  him.  Here  were  he  and 
Mat  old-fellowing  and  old-boying  each  other  and  agreeing 
to  an  undreamt-of  extent.  Of  course,  they  hadn't  ever 
really  been  cold  or  impolite  towards  one  another,_nor  had 
they  ever  failed  to  harmonize  on  anything  of  importance 
until  the  lynching  question  came  up.  But  then,  all  this 
palavering  was  a  new  thing,  as  it  is  to  any  two  old  friends. 
When  before  had  Mat  waited  to  be  invited  to  feed  Charley  ? 
When  before  had  they  bowed  and  scraped  over  getting  a 
bucket  of  water  ?  Time  out  of  number  Mat  had  fed  Charley 
in  Dud's  stalls  without  any  discussion  beforehand,  and 
time  out  of  number  Dud  had  flung  himself  in  a  rocker 
and  said:  "Find  a  chair.  Mat,  plenty  o'  roostin'  places 
about."  But  to-day  'twas  old  boy  this  and  old  feller  that, 
until  the  twinkle  in  Dud's  ej'os  had  hard  work  to  joint 
the  general  harmony  and  became  grave.  It  did,  though, 
and  Dud  was  ready  for  the  inevitable  when  Mat  returned. 
They  each  drank  a  dippe.rful,  and  then  Mat  selected  a 
cool  place  for  himself,  and,  in  lieu  of  smoking,  fanned 
vigorously  for  a  few  moments. 

"Warm,  ain't  it?"  he  remarked. 

"Dogged  if't  ain't;  goin'  to  have  a  spell  of  it,  too/7 

"Wouldn't  be  surprised." 

"Takes  all  the  vim  out  of  a  feller." 


LOVE  AND    PRINCIPLE.  I /I 

"Yeh,  uh." 

"Makes  a  feller  feel  like  findin'  shade  these  days." 

"Yeh,  uh,  that's  right." 

"But  findin'  it  an'  bein'  able  to  keep  it's  different — 
only  moneyed  men,  like  Wicked  Bill,  can  afford  the 
luxury." 

"Huh,  that's  so:  us  fellers  don't  find  it  overly  shady 
in  the  field." 

"No,  nor  ridin'  these  days,  either." 

BUMP  went  the  talk.  Dud's  "ridin'  these  days" 
referred  to  his  canvassing,  and  Mat  knew  it,  and  though 
he  tugged  and  strained  at  his  tongue,  that  essential  organ 
of  articulation  wouldn't  budge — no,  wouldn't  even  emit 
a  faint  "yeh-uh."  Bump  went  the  talk,  and  bump  it 
seemed  likely  to  stay,  and  yet  each  had  wanted  the  other 
to  make  the  first  lead  off.  Mat  fanned  so  hard  until  the 
honev-.uckle  vine  on  the  end  of  the  porch  behind  him 
rustled,  and  Dud  pumped  engine-like  wreaths  of  smoke 
from  his  cob,  and  still — bump !  At  last  that  twinkle  came 
slipping  back,  peeping  mischievously  out  of  Dud's  eyes. 
Serious  as  the  situation  was,  and  it  was  serious,  and 
Dud  felt  hurt  at  being  antagonized  by  his  oldest  friend — 
but,  nevertheless,  the  humor  of  their  sitting  thus  struck 
him  keenly.  He  had  that  innate  appreciation  of  the 
humorous  which  Mat  lacked.  Mat  enjoyed  a  joke  like 
svery  other  true  son  of  Dixie;  but,  unlike  most  of  us,  he 
didn't  see  one  until  it  was  put  in  words;  whereas,  the 
essence  of  it  always  appealed  to  Dud.  Such  a  thing  as 
he  and  Mat  sitting  together,  silent  and  ill  at  ease,  had 
never  happened  before,  not  even  excepting  at  the  funeral 
of  Dud's  mother,  a  half-dozen  years  since.  Then  they  were 
not  ill  at  ease,  they  weren't  at  odds,  as  now.  Sorrowful 
as  the  occasion  had  been,  the  two  boys  felt  a  calmness 


172  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

which  only  the  knowledge  of  iron-bound  friendship  can 
make  perfect,  and  so,  though  they  had  sat  together  for 
hours  after  returning  from  the  burial,  the  silence  was  but 
the  mute  consolation,  the  heavenly  language  of  true, 
abiding  friendship.  How  different  on  this  morning  of 
Mat's  announcement  to  run  against  Dud.  Neither  was 
at  ease,  both  felt  the  bands  strain,  each  saw  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  an  opponent  before  men  in  the  other, 
and  while  Mat's  eyes  showed  the  thorny  tension,  Dud's 
twinkled.  "Yes,"  he  thought,  "confound  'em,  Mat'll  look 
at  'em  presently  and  think  I'm  raggin'  him — dog  take  his 
serious  time." 

But  Mat  didn't  see  those  "confounded"  eyes  twinkling, 
or,  if  he  did,  he  didn't  observe  it.  He  was  intensely 
intent  on  how  to  begin  that  talk  he  had  told  Dud  he 
wanted  to  have.  A  sort  of  intuition,  or  shall  I  say  correct 
insight,  into  his  friend's  nature,  told  him  that  Dud  wasn't 
likely  to  begin  it.  And  his  intuition  was  correct,  for  Dud 
felt  that  he  had  done  nothing  causing  explanation,  and 
Mat  already  knew  his  platform,  so  if  there  was  to  be  any 
political  powwow  it  was  "up  to  Mat."  Thus  was  Dud 
thinking  when : 

**Dud!"  said  Mat,  with  startling  suddenness,  so  start- 
ling that  Dud  hastily  laid  his  pipe  on  the  gallery  railing 
and  brought  his  chair  to  a  level  and  involuntarily  asked: 

"Huh?" 

"Dud,  't  ain't  no  use  for  us  to  be  fightin'  shy  this  way 
— we  ain't  used  to  it.  We  ought  to  be  too  good  friends 
to  be  a  holdin'  back  when  we're  both  thinkin'  about  the 
same  thing.  I  came  over  to  talk  about — or,  rather — that 
is,  as  you  might  call  it,  explain,  my  'nouncement :  come 
on,  now,  old  feller,  and  help  me  out.  What  do  you  think 
about  it?" 


LOVE    AND   PRINCIPLE.  173 


"Mat,  I — I — can't  exactly  say  what  I  do  think,  uh " 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"Since  you  insist,  Mat,  I — uh — think  it's  damn  funny !" 
Dud  brought  the  last  few  words  out  at  terrific  speed,  and 
immediately  broke  off  a  sprig  of  honeysuckle  and  began 
nibbling  it: 

"Though,  of  course,"  he  added,  after  a  long  pause,  "I 
guess  it  don't  strike  you  that  away,  bein'  as  you  know  your 
reasons  an'  I  don't.  I  never  knowed  you  do  anything  yet 
without  knowin'  your  reasons,  and  (pause)  I  (pause) 
reckon  you  do  this  time."  But  those  two  pauses  were 
tantamount  to  saying,  "I  reckon  you  do,  an'  then  agin,  I 
reckon  you  don't." 

So  Mat  took  it,  for  he  began  earnestly:  "Now,  Dud, 

don't  misjudge  me,  I "  his  manner  was  so  beseeching 

and  his  looks  so  troubled,  that  Dud,  who  had  covertly 
glanced  at  him,  arose  quicklv  and  interrupted  more 
quickly, — his  recent  terrific  speed  growing  in  jumps  and 
strides  and  gallops  at  every  utterance: 

"Quit,  Mat,  quit:  you  talk  like  a  man  that  didn't  have 
more'n  half  sense.  Misjudge  you!  Pshaw!  I  ain't  judged 
you  one  way  or  other.  It's  a  purty  time  o'  day  for  me  to 
be  suspectin'  you  of  underhand  motives  in  runnin'  'ginst 
me — you,  whom  I've  always  known  to  guide  your  whole 
life  by  pure  principles.  If  there's  any  wrong  motives,  it's 
me  who  has  'em.  I  confess  to  you  that  I'm  runnin'  for 
Sheriff  'cause  I'm  in  politics;  I've  a  hankerin'  that  way, 
and  regardless  of  the  question,  I'm  in  politics  for  my 
own  interest.  You  know  that,  Mat,  for  I've  never  kept 
anything  from  you:  but  I  don't  mean,  on  that  account, 
that  I  ain't  sincere  in  my  present  stand.  I  am  sincere 
— everything  I've  said  on  lynching  come  straight  from 
my  convictions.  Yes,  I  am  sincere,  but  that  don't  cut  no 


174  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

figger  in  the  main  point.  I  run  for  Sheriff  'cause  I'm 
inclined  that  way ;  why,  shucks  !  didn't  I  announce  'fore  all 
this  hurrah  started?  Course  I  did,  so  that  goes  to  prove 
what  I'm  out  for,  whereas  with  you — why,  Mat,  there  ain't 
a  man  in  Pike  who  believes  in  your  sincerity  more'n  I. 
Talk  about  misjudgin'  you — misjudgin'  be  d — d  !  Your 
motives  are  way  beyond  and  above  mine;  your  past  life, 
your  life  to-day  is  proof  of  that  even  if  I  didn't  know  you 
so  well.  Simply  because  I  don't  see  your  reasons  right 
at  once,  is  that  misjudgin'?  What  I  meant  was  this,  old 
boy,  an'  nothing  else,  an'  it's  what  I've  told  you  all  along. 
That  scoundrel  Hicks — yes.  I  will  call  him  a  scoundrel, 
an'  a  damn  scoundrel  at  that — I  say  that  scoundrel  Hicks 
was  the  one  who  started  this  rumpus.  All  Pike  give  it  up 
that  I  was  the  logical  man  for  Sheriff;  you  yourself  have 
said  all  along  that  I'd  stick  by  my  oath  of  office,  our  pol- 
itics agreed,  so  where  was  there  any  issue?  There  warn't 
any,  none  at  all,  none  at  all,  until  the  Deacon  manu- 
factured one.  Lynchin'!  That's  an  issue,  ain't  it!  T 
stated  my  views  on  it  long  ago — von  stated  vours,  and 
after  all  was  said  and  done,  to  my  notion,  we  agreed  on  the 
main  point.  Xot  so  with  Hicks.  He  had  a  purpose,  I 
thought,  in  antagonizing  me — I  see  now  it's  in  runnin' 
you.  I  was  fool  enough  to  think  at  first  he  didn't  like  me 
on  general  principles,  and  wanted  to  see  me  beat.  But 
that's  all  rot,  bosh,  stuff !  Hicks  wouldn't  harm  his  worst 
enemy  unless  there  was  some  pecuniary  gain  to  be  got  out 
of  it:  when  that's  at  stake,  though,  why  the  shunk'd  kill 
his  mother  and  sell  her  body  to  a  medical  school.  So  I 
told  you,  and  repeat  it,  that  there's  dollars  somewhere  in 
sight  in  this  thing  for  Hicks,  whereabouts  I  can't  see 
now,  but  I  tell  you  solemnly,  an'  I've  told  you  before,  that 
Hicks  is  usin'  you,  usin'  you,  Mat.  That's  why  I  said  I 


LOVE  AND    PRINCIPLE. 

thought  your  'nouncement  was  damn  funny.  After  I've 
told  you  that,  differ  with  me  all  you  please  on  informally 
stringin'  a  rapist,  but  not  to  let  liicks  use  you,  why, 
you  go  an'  run  your  good  old  foolish  head  right  in  it — 
you  seem  to  throw  a  doubt  on  my  sincerity  an'  run  'ginst 
me.  I  know  what  a  feller  you  are  for  principle,  Mat,  an' 
I  know  that  in  follerin'  a  right  principle  you  are  no  more 
a  respecter  of  persons  than  Hicks  is  in  follerin'  wrong 
ones.  I  admit  it  kinder  struck  me  hard  to  think  that  my 
oldest  an'  best  friend  'd  be  my  opponent,  but  I  under- 
stand it's  a  matter  over  and  above  such  things  with  you, 
an'  I  respect  your  position;  but  I  must  repeat,  Mat,  that 
in  view  of  my  warnings  about  Hicks,  your  'nouncement 
is  damn  funny,  damn  funny,  Mat." 

Mat  had  arisen  during  the  foregoing  and  when  Dud 
finished,  the  two  boys  stood  facing  silently  a  moment. 
Then  the  former  held  out  his  hand : 

"Shake  it,  old  feller,"  he  said,  somewhat  thickly ;  "shake 
it,  though  I  don't  deserve  as  much — now  I  don't!"  he 
declared  emphatically,  as  Dud's  lips  formed  something  like 
"0,  pshaw!" 

"You  did  misjudge  my  motives,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly, 
through  fear  of  that  incredulous  "0,  pshaw!"  "Yes  you 
did,  old  feller,  but  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  I  have 
done  you  a  grievous  injury  to  think,  to  even  think,  you 
thought  I've  acted,  uh — acted  sorter  out  of  my  usual  way ; 
but,  Dud,  your  confidence  in  my  motives  has  upset  me, 
has  shown  me  what  my  own  vanity  has  been  concealing  all 
along.  I've  been  lying  to  myself — yes,  don't  stop  me,  old 
feller,  I'm  not  crazy,  I'm  not  talking  at  'ranulddom,' 
as  Uncle  Alec  McXeil  says;  I'm  just  penitent,  and  want 
to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  I  say,  I've  been  trying  to 
fool  m}ri5elf  into  believin'  that  the  principle,  and  the  prin- 


176  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

ciple  alone,  of  this  lynch  question,  is  the  sole  cause  of  my 
announcement,  but  your  words  just  now  have  unmasked 
me  to  myself,  and  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  right  here  an' 
now,  Bud,  that  it  ain't  me  at  all " 

"Enough,  enough,  Mat,  I  know  it ;  I  know  it.  Did  you 
think  I'd  suppose  you'd  ever  go  ag'inst  me  to  this  extent 
unless  'twas  somebody " 

"Hold  on,  Dud;  it  ain't  the  somebody  you  think;  you 
know  you  always  said  it'd  take  a  powerful  somebody  to 
move  me,  so  it  ain't  Hicks,  an'  that's  why  I  said  you  were 
misjudgin'  me.  No,  old  feller,  it  ain't  Hicks,  although  I 
think  you  are  way  wrong  in  your  estimate  of  him,  but 
that  aside,  it  ain't  him — it's — uh — well,  to  be  plain  and 
honest  about  it,  an'  I  give  you  my  word  I  haven't  come  to 
the  conclusion  until  just  now,  that  is,  well,  as  you  might 
say,  haven't  acknowledged  the  conclusion — it's  Miss 
Hennon." 

I  ought  to  say  that  Dud  acted  like  he  was  shot,  and 
recoiled,  and  did  other  things  consistently  with  the  way 
of  the  orthodox  pen — but  he  didn't.  He  merely  repeated 
"Miss  Hennon"  once  in  a  surprised  sort  of  way,  and  then 
said,  laughingly: 

"Oh,  I  see  it — ha ! — she's  worked  on  your  Christian 
gide — she's  commenced  the  home  mission  work  on  you. 
I'm  the  bad  man  who's  the  friend  of  the  Ott  gang,  and 
she's  picked  out  the  onjy  man  in  Pike  who  kin  down  me 
an' " 

"No,  no;  not  that,  Dud,  don't  wrong  her,  she  has  never 
said  one  word  against  you,  not  one  word.  I  meant  that 
my  love  for  her " 

This  time  Dud  did  recoil. 

"Your — love — for — her;  why,  why  didn't  you  tell  a 
feller?'* 


LOVE   AND   PRINCIPLE.  1 77 

There  was  agony  in  that  question. 

"His  love  for  her/'  and  he  hadn't  told  his  best  friend. 
"Oh,  the  deuce  and  Tom  Walker,"  Dud  was  thinking, 
when  Mat  put  his  hand  out  and  said: 

"Don't  be  hurt,  Dud;  I  haven't  been  hiding  it  because 
I  was  afraid  to  tell  you — because  I  had  any  underhand 
scheme,  but  jes  simply  because  I  didn't  want  to  make  you 
feel  good  without  cause.  If  there  is  a  living  creature 
who  can  enjoy  my  joys  out  of  pure  disinterested  motives, 
you  are  that  one,  an'  I  knew  if  I  told  you  'fore  I  was 
sorter  sure,  like,  and  then  it  all  fell  flat,  why  you'd  take 
it  to  heart  nigh  as  much  as  me.  So  I've  waited  until  I've 
felt  that  she  loved  me,  too." 

Dud  said  nothing.  He  could  find  no  words  just  then. 
Hypocrisy  was  not  among  his  faults.  He  shook  Mat 
warmly  by  the  hand  and  looked  that  old  honest  look  out 
of  his  old  honest  eyes  that  told  Mat  he  was  with  him — 
but  his  tongue  was  silent.  He  took  a  turn  up  and  down 
the  porch  and  finally  halted  before  Mat,  and  asked : 

"She  loves  you?" 

"Dud,  I  wouldn't  have  announced  for  the  race  if  I 
hadn't  thought  so." 

"Docs  she  want  you  to  run?" 

"She  told  ine  she  thought  it  was  my  duty/' 

"And  you  believe  she  loves  you,  old  boy?" 

"I  do/Dud." 

"Then — then "  but  he  got  no  further.  Another 

stop — but  this  time  a  silent  one.  Another  turn,  and  Mat 
paw  that  familiar  mood  come  over  his  friend,  which  he 
knew  so  well,  so  he  went  up,  and,  laying  his  hand  lightly 
en  Dud's  shoulder,  said: 

"I'll  be  goin',  old  feller ;  if  you  want  to  arrange  speakin* 


178  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

dates  we  can  get  together  to-morrow  when  you're  in  town. 
Don't  think,  Dud — but  then  I  know  you  won't — " 

Dud  stopped  him  with  a  silent  gesture,  and  said : 

"I'll  see  you  to-morrow,  Mat.     Stay  to  dinner?" 

".No — got  that  job  in  the  lower  field." 

"Well,"  they  were  walking  towards  the  lot,  "we  can 
fix  dates  to-morrow." 

They  shook  hands  warmly.  Mat  mounted  his  horse, 
and  as  Dud  closed  the  big  gate  after  him  he  turned  in  the 
saddle  and  waved  a  friendly  good-day.  Dud  waved  back 
and  called  the  simple  old  Southern  invitation: 

"Come  back  agin." 

"All  right ;  you  come,"  sang  out  Mat. 

"Yes, — I  can  come  now,"  said  Dud  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MAGNANIMITY. 

WHEN  Mat  and  Dud  rode  away  from  Old  Man  Dodd's, 
leaving  Whittledom  transfixed  with  astonishment,  Bill 
Ott,  as  remarked  in  the  last  chapter,  beckoned  Andy  Dodd 
away.  The  almost  imperceptible  nod  was  noticed  by  the 
ever-alert  Ott  outfit,  and  the  knowing  ones,  who  com- 
prised pretty  night  two-thirds  of  the  outfit,  rightly  inferred 
that  something  more  important  than  tapping  a  jug  or 
planning  a  chicken  roast  \vas  on  the  boards. 

The  entire  outfit  usually  acted1  as  a  council  on  fixing  crap 
and  seven-up  dates  :•  Bill,  Andy  and  Pedro  were  generally 
the  Board  to  act  upon  poultry  raids  and  shoat  liftings.  But 
when  William  the  Godless,  and  Young  Dodd  betook  them- 
selves to  a  whispered  conference,  then,  indeed,  was  expecta- 
tion rife.  Only  once  before  had  such  a  portentious  powwow 
occurred,  and  that  was  the  night  a  traveling  show  had 
exhibited  at  Pike,  and  after  an  enthusiastically  patronized 
performance,  had  retired  to  rest.  The  following  morning 
horses,  harness,  wagon  seats,  gasoline  tanks  and  all  other 
portable  properties,  except  the  tent,  and  the  artists  "them- 
selves, were  gone,  and  it  consumed  the  entire  treasury  of 
the  company  to  recover  their  goods  and  chattels.  After 
their  departure,  the  outfit  enjoyed  a  gala  time  until  various 
recently  and  mysteriously  acquired  sums  of  money  once 
again  changed  hands. 

So  Constable  Tobe  and  his  cohorts  staed  out  on  the 


I8O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

porch  and  peeped  around  the  corner  of  the  store  in  the 
direction  of  the  pump,  watching  every  gesture  of  the  two 
'.leaders,  and  hoping  that  whatever  the  game  *in  hand  it 
would  pan  out  a  spree  for  them.  And  though  those  inter- 
ested spectators  'did  not  watch  from  any  contemplative 
standpoint,  it  was  -a  picture  well  worthy  of  such  a  view. 
One  seeing  the  two  men  together  for  the  first  time  could 
not  but  be  forcibly  struck  by  the  contrast — such  a  con- 
trast !  Andy  Dodd,  tall,  handsome,  well-made,  lithe,  high 
forehead,  strongly  denned  facial  characteristics,  lustrous, 
seemingly  honest,  brown  eyes — everything,  every  sign, 
every  indication,  pointing  to  .good  stock  and  causing  the 
stranger  to  exclaim:  "That  fellow  can  point  with  pride 
to  his  forefathers!"  (and  if  the  stranger  but  knew  it,  that 
was  a  sight  more  than  his  forefathers  could  do  to  him). 
Then  to  glance  from  the  younger  to  the  older  man,  and 
wonder,  on  a  close  inspection,  whether  he  really  was  a 
man.  "Wicked  Bill,  low  in  stature,  as  in  morals;  shoulders 
bent  in  as  though  he  was  perpetually  trying  to  hide;  a 
thick  neck  in  which  the  drink-swollen  veins  were  fairly 
visible  through  an  indefinite  accumulation  of  dirt;  a  per- 
fectly round  head,  but  always  thrust  down  and  forward  in 
an  attitude  suggestive  of  eavesdropping — in  which  its 
owner  was  a  past  master;  gray-yellow-brindle  eyes,  that 
defied  scrutiny,  but  observed  the  faintest  rustle  of  a  leaf 
through  their  constant  squint ;  an  upper  row  of  discolored 
teeth  protruding  from  iiis  mouth,  but  pointing  inwards, 
reminding  one  of  a  squirrel ; — and  the  mouth  !  If  ever  a 
sewer  carried  the  very  scum  of  scum,  filth  of  filth,  through 
its  polluted  course  to,  at  last,  infect  the  atmosphere  with 
foul  gases,  Bill  Ott's  mouth  was  the  cloaca.  He  used  the 
most  varied  assortment  of  vile  articulation  that  ever  issued 


MAGNANIMITY  l8l 

from  human  or  inhuman  being,  and  he  vomited  his  filth 
wherever  his  fancy  ventured  . 

The  summing  up  of  a  comparison-between>Bill  and  Andy 
must  of  necessity — sad  though  it  is — be  the  same  old  story, 
— the  eagle  mates  with  the  buzzard,  not  to  lift  him  up,  out 
to  be  dragged  down.  Andy,  to  become  what  misguided 
youth  deems  a  man,  had  selected  the  most  dissolute  crea- 
ture he  could  find  for  a  model.  I  use  the^word  selected  with 
due  deliberation,  notwithstanding  it  is  tHe  fashion  among 
grieving  mammas  and  pious,  but  powerfully  provincial,, 
pastors  to  charge  the  full  infamy  of  Andy's  undoing- up 
to  Wicked  Bill.  It  were  an  insult  to  a  youth  of  Andy'a 
nature,  intellect,  and  ability  to  say  that  he  had  blindly  tsuf- 
fered  himself  to  be  netted — and  an  admission  that  Nature 
has  no  aristocracy.  Andv,  in  his  fledgling  days,  possessed 
more  philosophic  comprehension  than  was  ever  .dreamt 
of  by  an  Ott,  young  or  old.  If  your  blue  grass  colt  desires 
to  repudiate  the  breeding  of  its  gallant  sire  and  noted 
dam,  and  take  up  with  a  scavenger's  plug,  it  does  so  in 
spite  of  itself  and  not  because  of  superior  attractions, 
either  in  the  plug  or  in  the  wretched  career  the  plug  leads. 
The  identical  principle  is  applicable  to  Andy,  and  hence 
I  shall  not  waste  any  tears  over  his  choice :  suffice  to  say,  he 
adopted  Bill  for  his  preceptor,  and  we  all  know  that  the 
corps  of  teachers  in  Experience's  school  is  a  high-salaried 
body,  and  much  given  to  the  applied  system,  t.  e.,  the 
system  used  bv  the  monkey  who  let  his  feline  scholar 
extract  the  chestnuts  from  the  fire. 

"Oh,  it's  the  best  thing  for  us  that  could  a-happened," 
Bill  was  saying  in  undertones  to  Andy. 

"I'm  d — d  glad  he's  goin'  to  run ;  Dud  won't  do  a  thing 
to  him,  d — n  his  sanctimonious  hide !"  commented  Andy. 

"I  don't  keer  a-  d — n  'bout  that ;  what  we  want  is  to  git 


I&2  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Tobe  mcde  deputy,  an'  then  we'll  have  things  comin'  our 
way." 

"Well,  h — 1,  Dud'll  make  Tobe  his  deputy — Mat's  sure 
for  the  church  vote,  an'  by  G — !  Dud'll  need  us  or  he's  gone 
to  h— 1!" 

"He's  got  to  have  us  'n  what  we  want  to  do  is  to  see  him 
right  away/' 

"Well,  Bill,  don't  you  think  if  we  hold  up  an'  let  on  like 
we  might  all  vote  for  Mat  that  there'd  be  somethin'  in  it, 
besides  Tobe's  appointment?" 

<;H— 1,  no!  Dud  knows  us  fellers  too  well;  they  ain't 
no.'bluffin'  him  there,  an',  'sides,  what  th'  h — 1  do  you  want? 
Tobe's  appointment  means  cash  to  us.  By  the  way,  you 
owe  Tobe  ten,  don't  you  ?" 

"It's  thirteen  sixty,  countin'  last  night's  losin'." 

"Well,  there's  one  gain  a-ready;  git  Dud's  promise  o* 
the  'pointment  an'  I'«ll  make  Tobe  square  it  off.  Why,  boy, 
if  we  don't  do  somethin'  like  that,  fust  thing  we  know,  the 
Grand  Jury'li  be  raisin'  seventeen  kinds  o'  hell !  Hicks  'n 
his  gang  'd  be  tickled  to  death  to  git  Mat." 

"Oh,  to  h — 1  with  Mat;  he  ain't  deuce  high  himself — 
he  couldn't  tell  what  we  were  doin'  if  he  was  to  run  up 
on  us;  he  don't  know  one  card  from  another;  but  it'd  be 
just  like  him  to  get  a  deputy  who'd  nail  us  first  dash  out." 

"There's  where  7/ow.mTsseo'rit,  Andy ;  if  you'd  got  in  with 
him,  why  you  an'  Betty  could  a-been  tied  up  'ginst  now 
an'  you'd  a-been  Mat's -deputy — an'  Jee-sus!  what  a  hog- 
killin'  time  we  would  a-had  !" 

"Oh,  well,  don't  you  fret  about  my  gettin'  Betty,  all 
right  enough — even  ii'  I'm  never  deputy  sheriff.  Betty 

thinks  that of  a  brother 

of  hers  is  prepared  stuff,  but  jes  wait  till  she's  Betty  Dodd." 


MAGNANIMITY.  183 

"Ha,  ha,  ha !  You'll  show  her  how  to  roll  box  cars,  hey  ?" 

"That's  no  lie." 

"Well — come  on ;  Mat'll  bout  ride  out  there  'n  start  back 
'ginst  we  git  to  the  house — 'n  we'll  go  by  Fritz's  anyway  'n 
take  on  some  oats ;  come  along.  Oh,  Tobe !" 

"Hey?" 

"Me  an'  Andy's  goin'  somewhere." 

"A'  right;  we'll  be  here  or  down — you  know." 

"Umph,  huh." 

"Don't  forgit  to  bring  us  back  three  fingers  in  the 
washtub." 

"Ha !  Where's  your  money  ?" 

Bill  and  Andy  put  off  through  the  woods,  stopping  at 
Fritz's,  a  gentleman  of  Teutonic  extraction,  who  dispensed 
a  decoction  of  grape  and  alcoholic  extraction, — and  then 
winding  their  way  across  country  until  Dud's  fences 
appeared  through  the  trees.  After  a  short  reconnoitre 
they  saw  that  Mat  hadn't  yet  gone,  so  they  lay  down  in 
the  underbrush  not  far  from  the  road,  and  with  a  social 
jug  of  Fritz's  vintage  between  them,  waited.  When  at 
last  Mat  and  Dud  came  out  to  the  lot  and  Mat  rode  away, 
the  interior  of  the  jug  had  gradually  become  a  yawning 
vacuum,  and  its  pair  of  imbibers  were  in  neither  a  partic- 
ularly temperate  nor  docile  frame  of  mind,  and  heaped 
enough  imprecations  upon  Mat  for  keeping  them  waiting 
to  have  run  Bill  a  whole  day  and  night. 

Bill  and  Andy  had  settled  it  for  the  latter  to  "see" 
Dud,  or,  that  is,  Bill  had  settled  it  and  Andy  had  agreed 
to  it.  They  gave  Mat  good  time  to  get  away  and  then 
looked  for  Dud  to  re-enter  the  house;  but  he  flung  his 
arms  over  the  gate  and  leaned  his  head  on  them,  and 
remained  motionless  so  long  that  they  thought  he  had  gone 
to  sleep,  and  began  to  switch  their  abuse  from  Mat  to 


1 84  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

him.  But  he  raised  up  at  length  and  Bill,  whose  squint 
was  as  telescopic  as  keen,  exclaimed  under  his  breath: 

"Good  God !  The  feller's  sick !" 

Just  then  Dud  turned  and  began  pacing  up  and  down 
the  horse  lot  in  a  manner  to  cause  the  smothered  remark 
from  Andy: 

"That  don't  look  much  like  a  sick  walk." 

Sick  or  not,  the  walker  kept  it  up  until  Bill  observed 
that  "they'd  a-brought  two  gallons  an'  some  sow-belly  if 
they'd  a-known  they  wuz  agoin'  to  have  to  camp." 

While  the  walk  was  seemingly  no  nearer  conclusion  than 
when  first  started,  Dud  suddenly  wheeled  to  the  left  flank 
and  entered  his  house.  Bill  arose  and  said : 

"Come,  Andy,  we're  late  now;  less  go  down  a  piece  an* 
then  you  start  back  up  the  road.  I'll  wait  at  the  corner  of 
the  field." 

The  willing  cat  followed  his  mentor,  and  some  three 
or  four  hundred  yards  toward  Pike  they  emerged  into 
the  road,  and  young  Dodd  turned  his  face  back  in  the 
direction  of  the  Trenome  dwelling.  He  walked  on,  rolling 
a  cigarette,  and  coming  in  sight  of  Dud's  house,  looked 
over  in  the  field,  then  around  the  barn,  and  so  on,  as 
though  Due1  might  be  most  anywhere  about  the  place  or 
might  not  be  about  the  place  at  all  as  far  as  he  knew. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  gate  he  called: 

"Hello !" 

No  reply. 

"Hello!" 

Still  no  answer. 

"The  devil!"  he  thought,  "wonder  if  he  is  gone,"  and 
then  he  shouted : 

"Whoo-ee!     Anybody  home?" 

"Come  in,  Andy,"  called  Dud,  leaning  out  of  a  front 


MAGNANIMITY.  1 8$ 

window,  "didn't  know  anybody  was  out  there;  come  in, 
you  know  the  dogs." 

Andy  advanced  up  the  walk  and  noticed  that  it  had  been 
recently  graveled  and  sideboarded.  Dud  met  him  at  the 
gallery  and,  shaking  hands,  invited  him  in.  On  entering 
the  sitting  room  he  glanced  towards  a  desk  and  observed 
writing  materials  displayed.  Dud  followed  the  glance  and 
said: 

"I  was  busy  doin'  a  little  writin' — don't  reckon  I'd  a 
hardly  heard  it  thunder." 

Andy  sat  down  and  Dud  did  likewise,  and  then,  for  the 
first  time,  it  struck  Andy  that  Dud  didn't  look  exactly 
well,  but  he  was  full  of  his  mission,  and  had  little  time 
to  speculate  en  aught  else. 

"Well,  Dud,"  he  began,  "we're  all  upset  in  town." 

"That  so?" 

"We  never  expected  to  hear  of  you  and  Mat  Doyle 
runnin'  'ginst  one  another." 

"Yes?"  asked  Dud,  though  from  the  absent  way  in 
which  he  said  it  he  might  as  well  have  used  any  other 
monosyllable. 

"The  boys  don't  think  Mat's  right,"  Dodd  pursued. 

"No?" 

"You  started  first." 

"Umph,  huh." 

"An'  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'd  vote  for  you  if  you 
hadn't." 

"Much  obliged." 

"And  I  believe  Bill  Ott  an'  all  his  friends  could  be 
made  to  do  it — anyways  they  ought  to." 

"Yeh — reckon  so." 

"Specially  if  Tobe  ever  expects  to  get  higher  than 
constable." 


1 86  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

^That's  right." 

"An'  for  the  matter  o'  that,  he  would  make  a  first-rate 
deputy." 

"Spec  so." 

This  was  discouraging  to  Andy.  Dud  neither  appeared 
to  listen  nor  to  care  much  about  listening,  and  his  short 
answers,  while  civil  and  friendly  enough,  were  so  many 
stumps  in  the  way.  Young  Dodd  smoked  away  viciously 
for  a  minute  or  so,  and  then  came  out  with  his  proposi- 
tion. Fritz's  wine  (?)  had  put  him  in  a  hasty  temper,  and 
his  temper  at  best  was  none  too  meek. 

"Dud,  you  stand  0.  K.  with  our  crowd." 

"Your  crowd?" 

"Er— Bill's  crowd." 

"Oh!" 

That  "Oh !"  was  a  terrible  jab,  being  tantamount  to  say- 
ing: "Andy,  you  know  you  don't  belong  in  that  crowd." 
But  the  "Oh'!"  stopped  there,  and  Dud  felt  really  sur- 
prised in  evincing  that  much  interest  in  the  matter. 

"And,  Dud,"  Andy  pursued,  "you  can  get  every  one  of 
our  votes,  sure — but,  of  course,  we'd  like  to  see  Tobe  made 
deputy." 

Silence. 

"We  don't  know  whether  you've  picked  your  deputy." 

Silence. 

"There  ain't  another  deputy  who  could  bring  you  the 
votes  Tobe  can." 

"I  don't  need  him." 

"You  don't  need  him!  Why,  h— 1,  Dud,  Mat'll  beat 
you." 

"No,  Mat  won't  beat  me." 

Fritz's  wine  commenced  to  boil  at  the  idea  of  anybody 
getting  an  office  in  Pike  independent  of  "the  boys." 


MAGNANIMITY.  1 87 

"Mat  won't  beat  you?     You're  drunk!" 

"Ha !  Blamed  if  I  don't  feel  like  it." 

"Or  crazy." 

"Guess  you're  right." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Dud — you  were  jes  jokin'?" 

"Nope — I  don't  need  Tobe — an'  if  he's  sent  you  here 
to  beg  for  him,  tell  him  so." 

"Well,  you're  beat." 

"That's  my  business." 

"You're  the  doctor,  Dud;  what  time  is  it?" 

"Four  ten." 

"H— 1,  I'll  be  night  gettin'  in." 

"Stay  all  night  here." 

"Thanks — got  a  small  game  up  to-night — good-by. 
You'd  better  change  your  mind  an'  not  drop  the  boys." 

"Andy,  you'd  better  change  your  mind  an'  drop  'em — 
you  talk  about  your  small  games — you're  too  big  game  for 
that  crowd  o'  hounds — 'n  the  sweetest  girl  in  Pike  your 
sweetheart,  too — it's  a  d — n  shame,  that's  what  it  is !" 

Andy  half- opened  his  lips  and  looked  as  though  Dud's 
unexpected  waking  up  had  angered  him,  but  he  merely 
said: 

"So  long." 

When  he  came  upon  Bill  he  jerked  his  thumb  backwards 
and  said: 

"N.  G." 

"What!" 

"No  go." 

«G—  d— n  him !" 

"Oh,  he's  beat." 

"Beat;  yes,  beat  right  now.  Less  go  back  an'  see  Mat 
'fore  night." 

"What  you  want  to  see  him  for?" 


1 88  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"Why,  'bout  Tobe — you're  drunk  a-ready?" 

"He'll  never  have  Tobe." 

"Oh.  I  don't  know;  we'll  try  him  a  few  anyhow." 

"D— d  if  /  see  him !    That's  straight." 

"Yes  you  will,  Andy." 

"No.;  I'll  be " 

"No,  no,  you  won't  be  nothin'  of  the  kind;  look  a-here, 
boy,  do  you  wan't  to  go  up  ?" 

"Nixey." 

"Well,  if  Tobe  ain't  deputy  we'll  all  lose  a  mighty  good 
chance,  if  we  ain't  sent  up." 

By  the  time  they  came  near  the  Doyleses,  Bill  had  made 
good  his  prediction,  and  Andy  proceeded  the  last  two  hun- 
dred yards  alone,  leaving  his  confederate  to  enter  town 
through  the  woods.  The  sun  was  sinking  low  in  the 
heavens  when  he  halted  at  the  gate  and  halloed  for  Mat. 
Betty  came  to  the  door  and  called  him  in,  but  he  declined, 
saying  he'd  wait  out  front.  Betty  replied: 

"Mat  hasn;t  got  up  to  the  house  yet — he's  been  at  work 
in  the  lower  field — let  me  see  if  he's  comin';  it's  supper 
time,"  and  she  stepped  to  the  end  of  the  porch  and  looked 
down  past  the  bam. 

"I'll  go  on  around  the  lane,  Bet,  and  meet  him,"  Andy 
said,  starting  off,  and  he  began  to  feel  more  than  ever  the 
tonic  effects  of  Fitz's  beverage. 

Betty  remained  on  thp  gallery  watching  him  go  up  the 
lane,  and  observing,  the" closer  he  got,  that  he  avoided  her 
look  and  appeared  in,  to  her,  a  rather  familiar  condition. 
She  ran  through  the  house  and  out  the  back  way  and  met 
him  as  he  came  opposite  the  side  gate. 

"What  do  you  want  with  Mat,  Andy?"  she  asked. 

"Jes'  a  little  business — politics." 


MAGNANIMITY.  189 

"Oh !  you  better  stay  to  supper ;  Mat'll  be  up  presently. 
You  look  like  you  been  walkin'." 

"Have." 

"Well,  come  in  an'  wash  up  for  supper;  Mat'll  be  glad 
for  you  to  stay." 

"Ain't  got  time,  Bet — 1  don't  reckon  Mat'll  grieve  much 
'bout  my  not  stayin'." 

"You  wrong  him,  Andy — he's  your  friend." 

"Yes,  I  reckon  so!     I'll  take  your  word  for  it." 

"There,  I  hear  him  now." 

Andy  turned  hastily,  and  seeing  Mat  undoing  the  lot 
gate  leading  to  the  field,  stepped  away  in  that  direction. 
Mat  brought  his  horse  in  and  closed  the  gate,  and  on  fac- 
ing around  beheld  young  Dodd  approaching. 

"Howdy,  Andy,"  he  greeted,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"H'y,  Mat,"  responded  Andy,  taking  the  hand  and  let- 
ting it  fall  before  giving  it  a  shake,  and  inquiring,  "Can  I 
help  you?" 

"No,  I'll  have  him  out  and  fed  in  no  time — go  ahead  in 
the  house— I'll  be  there—" 

"Thanks — ain't  got  but  a  minute  or  so;  wanted  to  see 
you ;  been  huntin'  for  you  all  day,  but  heard  you  were  out 
to  Dud's.  The  boys  asked  me  to  bring  you  word  that  they 
were  all  for  you." 

"The  boys?" 

"Yes— Bill  Ott  an'  his  friends." 

"Why,  I  thought  those  boys  were  all  'ginst  my  plat- 
form." 

"Oh,  as  far  as  lynchin'  goes,  you  know,  Mat,  there  ain't 
any  of  us  who  are  particular  'bout  what  route  a  nigger 
takes  to  glory." 

"Yes,  I  understood  as  much;  and  you  all  are  no  more 
particular  now  than  ever?" 


MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"'Course  not— but  that  don't  cut  no — " 

"Excuse  me  for  interruptin'  you,  Andy,  but  it  cuts  a 
figure  with  me.  Have  you  read  my  'nouneement  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  and  Bill  Ott's  friends  prepared  to  denounce 
mob  law?" 

"Not  when  it  concerns  stringin'  a  nigger." 

"Then  I  would  much  rather  you  and  Bill  Ott's  friends 
vote  'ginst  me." 

"H — 1,  Mat,  that  ain't  no  way  to  look  at  it.  Do  you 
expect  to  win  on  a  nigger  lovin'  platform?  Why,  G — 
d—n  it—" 

"Andy,  don't  take  God's  name  in  vain  around  me," 

"Free  country,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  but  don't  do  it  again.  I'm  obliged  for  your  offer 
and  I'd  like  to  have  all  your  votes — but  I  can't  accept  'em 
and  us  differin'." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  If  you  aim  to  beat 
Dud,  why  our  votes'll  do  it.  Why,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
we  could  run  a  third  man  an'  beat  both  of  you,  for  you  an' 
Dud'll  jes'  split  your  own  strength,  an'  we  could  come  in 
with  Tobe  Ott,  for  instance,  'n  bring  him  through  in  a 
walk." 

"Do  it  then." 

"But  we  don't  want  no  hard  feelin's — " 

"Huh !  There  needn't  be  any.  Tobe's  got  a  right  to  run 
same  as  Dud  or  me,  'n  if  he's  sure  of  it,  he's  foolish  not  to." 

"We  ain't  hoggish — Tobe'd  be  satisfied  with  bein'  dep- 
uty." f 

"Is  that  what  you  wanted  to  see  me  about?" 

"Well,  since  you  ask  it — yes." 

"Look  here,  Andy  Dodd,  you're  the  first  man  who  ever 
proposed  a  dishonorable  action  to  me." 


MAGNANIMITY.  19! 

"Don't  reckon  I'll  be  the  last  since  you  gone  in  poli- 
tics." 

"It'll  be  the  last  one  you'll  ever  propose.  This  ain't  my 
place — if  it  was  I'd  order  you  off — but  don't  you  ever  speak 
to  me  agin." 

"Why,  G— " 

Mat  deftly  ran  his  hand  back  of  Andy's  shirt  collar  and 
said: 

"Keep  your  hand  out  of  your  pocket;  I  don't  care  to 
fight  you.  I  asked  you  not  to  blaspheme  around  me — " 

"An'  I'll  blaspheme  as  much  as  I  G — " 

"What's  the  matter,  boys?"  broke  in  Betty.  She  had 
been  noticing  them  from  the  kitchen  window  while  she  was 
taking  up  supper,  and  when  Mat  grasped  Andy  she  hurried 
out. 

"Nothin',  Betty,"  said  her  brother. 

"N"othin'?"  echoed  Andy,  twisting  desperately,  "Take 
your  hand  off  me  and  I'll  show  you,  you  G — ,"  but  he 
never  finished  it.  Mat  could  have  easily  beaten  him  down 
like  a  dog,  but  he  merely  stopped  his  mouth  and  led  him  to 
the  lane  gate.  Betty  had  it  wide  open  for  him  and  ex- 
claimed, furiously,  "Don't  spare  him,  Mat !"  But  Mat, 
the  roadside  reached,  released  his  hold  and  walked  back — 
giving  Andy  full  opportunity  to  knife  him  from  behind, 
which,  however,  Andy  failed  to  do.  Betty  threw  her  arms 
around  her  brother  and  said,  vehemently : 

"I'll  never  speak  to  him  until  he  apologizes  for  insultin* 
you." 

"It  wasn't  me — it  was  God  he  insulted." 

"Tie's  a— a—" 

"Hold  on,  Betty,  you  know  mother's  motto — 'Judge  not' 
— I  see  one  o'  Dud's  hands  out  front — h'y,  Ed — want  to 
see  me  ?" 


192  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"Yes,  sir — heah's  a  letter  heah — Mister  Dudley  says 
there  warn't  no  answer." 

"'Light  anyhow,  Ed — go  back  in  the  kitchen — you  can 
have  supper  presently." 

The  darkey  got  down  from  his  horse  and  brought  the 
letter  to  Mat,  and  the  latter  opened  it  as  he  and  his  sister 
returned  to  the  house.  Coming  to  the  steps  he  said : 

"Go  on  in,  Bet,  111  be  there  directly." 

When  Mat  finished  the  page  and  glanced  up  he  observed 
Miss  Hennon  in  the  doorway. 

"Step  here,"  he  requested,  "and  read  this." 

She  read :  "Dear  Mat :  The  example  of  true  principle  you 
have  always  set  me  would  be  ill  requited  if  I  should,  after 
our  life-time  friendship,  fail  to  profit  by  it.  Since  our 
talk  to-day  what  I  should  do  is  plain  before  me,  and,  far 
from  hesitating  to  do  it,  I  feel  gratified  in  being  able  to 
give  you  some  little  proof  that  I  am  not  a  bad  debtor — for 
you  know  well,  old  boy,  that  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  what 
there  is  of  good  in  me. 

"I  withdraw  to-day  from  the  race  for  Sheriff  and,  far 
from  feeling  any  loss,  I  feel  I  have  gained — and  so  you  must 
feel  the  same,  and  accept  my  vote  and  support  in  the  spirit 
it  is  tendered.  Believe  me,  inasnmch  as  1  am  the  only  one 
vitally  interested  in  my  candidacy,  that  my  withdrawal  can 
cause  no  disappointment  to  any  one,  so  long  as  it  has  the 
happy  sanction  of  your  friend,  Dud." 

When  Miss  Hennon /'silently  handed  the  paper  back  to 
Mat  he  said,  slowly : 

"That's— what— I— call— the— soul— of— " 

"Magnanimity,"  completed  the  little  teacher. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ANDY  DODD,  GENT. 

DUD'S  withdrawal  caused  Whittledom,  and,  indeed,  all 
Pike — town  and  county — to  lose  interest  in  the  Sheriff's 
race.  Of  course,  it  was  merely  a  bluff  on  Andy's  part  that 
Tobe  Ott  had  any  serious  idea  of  running.  Beyond  the 
outfit,  who  controlled  the  town  precinct,  Tobe  couldn't  have 
raised  a  corporal's  guard  as  against  any  one  man,  though 
had  Dud  remained  in  the  race,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that 
disaffected  voters  would  have  gone  over  to  the  "dark  horse." 
As  it  was,  Mat  was  nominated,  and,  six  weeks  later,  elected 
and  duly  installed  in  office.  Dud  gained  universal  odium 
by  what  Pike  thought  was  his  milk-and-water  policy.  His 
erstwhile  staunchest  supporters  drew  off  from  him  in 
dudgeon,  and  allowed  that  "they  wuz  denied  glad  he  showed 
his  lack  o'  sand  while  the  game  was  young;  for  they'd  'a 
hated  powerful  bad  to  help  'lect  a  Xancy  for  Sheriff."  The 
idiots  little  kenned  the  magnanimity  that  had  inspired 
Dud's  move,  or  the  moral  courage  it  had  taken  to  consum- 
mate it :  true  disinterestedness  was  as  foreign  to  them  as  it 
is  to  your  tailor-made  cit.  Dud,  with  the  Ott  wing  back 
of  him,  would  have  been  invincible,  and  for  a  man  to  hand 
over  an  office  to  his  antagonist  in  that  manner  was  well- 
nigh  inexplicable  to  those  constituents,  whom  our  politi- 
cians are  prone  to  denominate  "the  incorruptible  yeo- 
manry/' 

But  Dud  had  no  explanations  or  apologies  to  offer.  He 

[193] 


194  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

still  kept  close  at  home,  albeit  the  repairs  on  his  place 
stopped.  There  were  those  who  prophesied  that  he  would 
be  Mat's  deputy,  especially  the  Ott  outfit;  but,  to  Pike's 
amazement,  Mat  took  the  reins  of  office  in  hand  without  a 
deputy.  He  said  it  was  nonsense,  and  a  waste  of  money, 
and  he  didn't  intend  having  one  except  during  his  tax- 
collecting  trips,  and  he  made  good  his  intention.  True,  it 
gave  him  plenty  to  do ;  but  he  said  that  was  what  he  looked 
for,  and  he  didn't  suppose  the  State  could  make  any  sort  of 
an  out  hiring  do-nothings, — he  found  he  never  could  on  the 
farm. 

Deacon  Hicks  kept  getting  more  and  more  rushed  with 
business,  and  scarcely  had  time  to  stop  by  the  Court  House 
and  say  "Morning"  to  "Sheriff  Doyle,"  as  he  was  fond  of 
dubbing  him. 

So  the  fall  began  to  glide  away  into  winter,  and  when 
Mat  went  on  his  first  collecting  trip,  lo!  all  Pike  County 
stood  agape — he  wore  a  brand  new  necktie,  week  days  as 
well  as  Sundays.  The  old  heads  allowed  that  "he  sartinly 
wuz  a-gittin'  stuck  up  quicker'n  the  average,  'n  if  he 
stayed  in  thar  two  terms  he'd  be  a-wearin'  a  long-tailed 
^behavior'  'n  a  plug  hat — he  would,  by  gum!"  The  good 
Deacon  smiled  way  up  his  sleeve  and  stated,  for  his  part, 
that  it  was  no  Sheriff's  office  that  ever  bought  that  cravat, 
no,  sir ;  and  that  whatever  was  the  cause  of  its  appearance, 
they  could  expect  a  wedding  ring  from  the  same  source 
some  time  in  the  no^far-distant  future.  He  made  it  a 
point  to  deliver  that  and  like  remarks  where  Mat  could  acci- 
dentally overhear  them ;  for  instance,  after  meetings,  or  on 
mill  days,  or  in  the  post-office ;  and  it  frequently  happened 
that  (by  chance,  purely),  he  would  saunter  arm  in  arm  part 
of  the  way  home  with  Mat  of  an  evening  and  cite  him  case 
after  case  where  friends  of  his  back  East  had  married  and 


ANDY   DODD,    GENT.  195 

settled  down  in  business;  and,  with  Aladdin-like  alacrity, 
had  overtaken  Dame  Fortune  in  her  most  smiling  humor, 
and  had  not  neglected  their  mothers  and  sisters,  either; 
it  seemed  they  all  had  mothers  and  sisters.  And  (to  out 
with  the  whole  thing),  Mat,  from  merely  listening,  or 
murmuring  "Huh,"  came  to  inquiring  the  names  of  those 
friends,  and  who  they  married,  and  how  their  mothers  and 
sisters  liked  it,  and  what  sort  of  businesses  they  embarked 
in;  and,  upon  Brother  Hicks  remembering,  singularly 
enough,  three  out  of  four  times,  that  it  was  the  lumber 
business,  Mat  became  very  thoughtful.  Then  would  Setton 
retire  to  his  sanctuary,  and  inwardly  contemplate  the 
beatitudes  of  perseverance,  and  call  to  mind  that  Scottish 
legend  of  how  another  spider  had  crawled  out  of  a  hole 
after  persistent  climbing. 

One  evening  in  November,  Dud  had  just  sat  down  before 
his  fire  and  began  to  fall  into  a  gentle  reverie  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  melancholy  north  wind  without.  It  was  one 
year,  precisely,  since  the  time  he  had  stayed  all  night  at 
Mat's  and  met  Her,  and  he  thought:  "There  can't  be  no 
great  sin  in  my  rememberin'  it,  an  'sort  o'  dreamin'  about 
it,  like ;  nor  no  harm  to  Mat ;  it's  only  a  memory,  an'  he's 
got  her  before-  him  in  life  'n  for  life,  too." 

There  came  a  tap  at  his  door,  and  he  called : 

"Come." 

One  of  his  hands  entered  with  the  mail,  having  just 
returned  from  town. 

"Cold  out,  Ed  ?"  asked  Dud,  listlessly  taking  the  package. 

"Yessir;  'spec  there'll  be  a  heavy  frost  'fore  mawninV 

"See  any  o'  Mister  Mat's  folks  ?" 

"No,  sir ;  Mister  Mat's  gone  to  town." 

"City?" 


19$  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"Yessir;  him  and  Deacon  Hicks;  everybody  says  they 
done  gone  into  pa'dnership." 

"Partnership  in  what  ?" 

"Sawmillin',  I  reckon,  sir." 

"Don't  see  what  they  wanted  to  go  up  to  the  city  for  to 
draw  up  a  partnership — lawyers  here." 

"I  heerd  Old  Mister  Dodd  a-sayin'  that  he'd  a-loaned 
Mister  Mat  all  he  wanted  on  his  ma's  place,  if  he'd  a-had  his 
pension  money,  'n  so  I  calculated " 

"Yes,  yes;  that's  about  it;  that's  about  it;  ah-hey — I 
shan't  want  anything  else  to-night,  Ed.  Did  you  rub  the 
horse  down?" 

"Yessir ;  got  plenty  o'  wood  ?" 

"Plenty;  I'm  goin'  to  bed  early." 

"Good  night,  sir." 

"Sight,  Ed." 

When  the  door  closed  Dud  repeated : 

"Yes,  that's  jes'  about  it:  gone  up  to  mortgage,  'n,  by 
ganny !  that's  what  Hicks  was  raisin'  such  a  hullabaloo  for 
last  spring.  I'  gad  !  he'll  be  in  clover,  now ;  he'll  keep  Mat 
busy  in  the  Sheriff's  office  'n  make  the  poor  fellow  believe 
anything.  May  not  turn  out  as  I  suspect,  but  I'm  mightily 
'fraid.  Mat's  so  easy — an'  good;  if  he  was  mean  like  me, 
he'd  keep  an  eye  out  for  that  psalm  singer.  Ah-hey — well, 
it's  no  time  for  my,  'put,'  even  if  it  was  asked,  which  it  ain't 
been.  An'  so  Old  Man  Dodd  would  'a — ha  !  poor  old  feller, 
that  blamed  pension'll  -be  as  near  to  him  when  he's  cold 
as  it  is  now — 'n  I  guess  it's  better  that  way,  for  no  tellin' 
what  kind  o'  devilment  Andy  wouldn't  stir  up  with  a  couple 
o'  thousand — it's  a  shame  'bout  that  boy !" 

Then  he  relapsed  into  his  reverie,  and  sat  as  still  as 
though  sleeping  until  long  after  the  fire  had  flickered  down 
to  a  few  sparkless  embers. 


ANDY  DODD,   GENT.  197 

Little  though  Dud  or  anyone  else  expected  it,  a  letter 
was  then  en  route  to  Old  Man  Dodd,  bearing  the  news  the 
old  postmaster  had  so  long  striven  and  hoped  for,  and 
when  the  new  firm  of  Hicks  and  Doyle  returned  from  the 
city  next  morning  they  found  Pike  in  a  state  of  unpre- 
cedented uproar.  The  morning's  mail  had  brought  a  com- 
munication from  the  Pension  Office  at  Washington,  stating 
that  a  treasury  draft,  covering  all  back  payments  due  on 
pension  number  so-and-so,  would,  in  due  and  early  course, 
be  sent  to  A.  B.  Dodd,  said  draft  being  Uncle  Sam's  testi- 
monial for  certain  services  rendered  him  by  A.  B.  Dodd 
under  Taylor  in  the  forties — a  long  time — a  regular  Rip- 
Van-Winkle  time  for  our  Uncle  to  be  waking  'up — but, 
better  late  than  never.  Oh,  the  Pecksniffs  and  Bumbles  who 
materialized  by  the  time  the  draft  arrived !  Oh,  what  a  fine 
pension  it  was !  Oh,  how  they  all  knew  that  it  had  been 
merely  a  question  of  time  until  it  should  come,  though 
nobody  ventured  to  say  just  how  long  a  time !  Oh,  what 
a  lovable  old  gentleman  Old  Man  Dodd  became !  Oh,  how 
many  petticoats  were  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  and  take 
charge  of  the  dear  old  gentleman's  domestic  affairs — poor 
dear — he  had  been  a  widower  so  long!  Oh,  how  "inter- 
estin' "  Andy  became !  Oh,  wasn't  it  a  pity  he  and  Betty 
were  "out" !  Oh,  if  he  and  Betty  couldn't  be  brought  "in," 
wouldn't  the  young  petticoats  cheerfully  undertake  to 
reform  him !  Oh,  my,  wouldn't  they !  And,  oh !  wasn't  it  a 
shame  such  a  smart  lad  had  to  run  a  mill  engine — awful 
shame !  Wouldn't  a  nice  business  be  the  thing  for  him — 
the  very  thing!  So  said  "Dear"  McNeil;  so  said  Uncle 
Alec  McNeil ;  and  then  they  looked  at  Winnie  and  repeated 
"the  very  thing!"  and  rolled  the  tid-bit  in  their  mouths, 
and  became' real  loving — just  too  loving  for  r.ny  use  I 

"Go  'long,  McNeil/'  said  "Dear,"  pinching  his  ear. 


198  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"Lord  bless  my  soul,  dear !"  declared  Uncle  Alec  McNeil 
(who  didn't  "go  'long") ;  "I'd  jes  give  ant/thing  to  help 
'Andy.  Why,  gracious  alive !  I'd  jes  turn  him  over  my 
business — jes  give  it  to  him,  y-e-s,  umph,  huh — hee-ha- 
hey!" 

"Oh,  McNeil,  you're  so  liberal !     He  !  he !  he  !" 

"No,  'pon  my  soul,  gecminee !  the  money  that  boy  could 
make !  Dear,  can't  you  fix  up  a  nice  little  supper  to-night 
— some  chicken,  'n  pie,  'n  beat  a  few  eggs,  'n  have  a  little 
real  old-time  egg-nog.  Lord-a-mercy !  I'll  be  bound  Andy 
M  like  a  little  egg-nog/' 

"Go  right  down,  McNeil,  and  tell  him — jes  make  him 
come — he  needn't  be  afraid  of  his  old  Aunty  McNeil;  an' 
tell  him  about  the  egg-nog — he  can  jes  have  it  all  to  him- 
self." 

"Y-e-s,  dear;  and  we'll  have  Mm  all  to  ourselves,  hee, 
ha,  hey  !  Lord  bless  my  time !" 

"Go  'long,  McNeil — an'  here,  take  him  two  o'  these  cigars 
you've  had  on  hand  since  last  Christmas." 

"Cert'inly,  cert'inly,  dear;  what  a  dip — dip — " 

"Dipper  r 

"Hee!  No,  no,  dear!  dip — dip — oh,  shucks — dip- 
low " 

"Oh,  tut,  McNeil !  Diplomat's  what  you're  thinkin'  of — 
diplomat's  a  forrener." 

"Is  it?  Well,  I  must  a  meant — oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  I  got 
it  turned  'round — diplomat's  a  f orrener,  an'  an  emigrant — 
that's  what  I  was  a-gittin  at — an  emigrant's  a " 

"Land  sakes,  McNeil !  Take  them  cigars  on  down  to  that 
dear  boy — an  emigrant!  Don't  you  know  an  emigrant  is 
a  varmint,  between  the  size  of  a  muskrat  'n  a  'possum — idea 
o'  callin'  me  an  emigrant !" 

"Hee!  ha!  hey!  Well,  you're  a— a " 


ANDY   DODD,   GENT.  199 

"Oh,  hurry,  McNeil;  some  o'  those  wicked,  low-down 
Ott's  '11  be  tryin'  to  lead  poor  Andy  off." 

'Tin  gone,  then — don't  forgit  to  charge  them  cigars  to 
— lemme  see " 

"I'll  charge  'em  to  Dud  Trenome " 

"But  he  don't  use  'em." 

"Well,  he  uses  coffee,  don't  he?  McXeil,  you're  gettin* 
dull — powerful  dull ;  'n  jes  when  you  ought  to  be  sharpest." 

"I'll  sharpen  up  'ginst  to-night,"  and  out  he  shuffled, 
leaving  "Dear"  immersed  in  streams  of  blissful  speculation. 

What  was  the  upshot  of  all  this  Pecksniffianism  and 
Bumbledumism  ?  If  the  reader  has  read  Andy's  nature 
aright,  the  upshot  was  not  whether  it  made  a  fool  of 
him,  but  how  big  a  fool  it  made.  Without  pausing  to 
consider  that  that  most  powerful  of  all  lubricators,  money, 
had  greased  the  hinges  of  his  flatterers'  knees,  and  without 
seeming  to  recollect  that  those  very  flatterers,  and,  first 
and  foremost,  the  McXeils,  had,  up  to  the  morning  of  the 
Pension  Office  notification,  been  his  most  consistent  abus- 
ers,  he  opened  his  maw  like  a  young  catbird,  and  gulped 
down  the  gobs  of  sickly  sycophancy,  all  the  while  crying, 
like  the  birdling:  "Pee  wee!  More  yet!  Pee  wee!  More 
yet !" 

And  while  Pike  was  thusly  loading  him  with  the  hope 
of  eventually  pumping  him  the  more  dry,  did  he  think  of 
Betty?  Yes,  he  thought  of  her;  he  remembered  her  years 
of  love  for  him ;  he  called  to  mind  that  when  his  new-found 
friends  were  belching  venomous  scandal  at  him  from  every 
cross  fence,  Betty  was  his  comforter,  his  apologist,  his  true- 
blue  sweetheart ;  yes,  these  things  came  to  him,  and  here  is 
the  effect  they  produced: 

"Xow,  by  G — d,"  he  said  to  Bill  Ott,  when  the  pension 
news  came ;  "now  I  reckon  Bet  Doyle'll  sing  a  new  tune — < 


200  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

she'll  kind  o'  wish  she  hadn't  been  so  d — n  brash  'bout 
hidin'  that  white-livered  brother  behind  her  skirts!  But 
6he  can  go  to  the  devil!  I'm  d — n  lucky  I  give  her  her 
walkin'  papers — hey,  Bill?" 

"Why,  sure,  Andy — does  credit  to  your  good  sense,"  and 
down  went  another  gob. 

Of  course,  Old  Man  Dodd  had  the  highest  attainable 
notions  of  what  he  would  have  Andy  do  with  the  pension — 
all  his  plans  converging  to  the  title  of  Andy  Dodd,  Gent. 
But  a  man  who  could  ,sink  to  such  a  stage  of  moral  perver- 
sion as  to  even  breathe  Betty's  pure  name  before  Bill  Ott, 
the  apotheosis  of  contamination,  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
realize  any  status  significant  of  gentility  or  gentlemanli- 
ness,  although  1  am  not  prepared  to  deny  that  he  might 
readily  lay  claim  to  designation — Andy  Dodd,  M.  P.  (Moral 
Pervert.)  Be  that  as  it  may,  Andy  agreed  with  the  McNeils 
that  "firin' "  was  beneath  him.  We  know  that  he  had 
long  detested  the  service  of  friend  Hicks;  now  he  found 
that  he  had  really  detested  all  "firin' "  service.  Conse- 
quently, he  determined  to  bid  adieu  to  Hicks'  service  in 
particular,  and  all  "firin'  "  service  in  general,  and  just  how 
to  do  it  consistent  with  the  dignity  of  Andy  Dodd,  Gent, 
was  a  matter  of  no  little  consideration.  He  couldn't  just 
quit.  That  suited  laborers  well  enough,  but  it  wouldn't 
do  at  all  for  gentlemen.  So  he  solved  it  in  your  true  gen- 
tlemanly style :  met  Hicks  in  a  crowd,  and  after  giving  him 
a  genteel  cursing  out/for  old  time's  sake,  resigned,  and 
wished  the  firm  of  Hicks  &  Doyle  a  cold  berth  here  and 
a  hot  one  hereafter,  (though  why  he  should  want  to  be  in 
proximity  to  his  enemies  for  eternity  is  beyond  me). 

The  Pecksniffs  and  the  Bumbles  roared  over  Andy's 
gentleman-like  way  of  "firin'  Hicks  'n  Doyle,"  as  Wicked 


ANDY    DODD,    GENT.  2OI 

Bill  termed  it ;  but  when  Mat  heard  of  it  he  stepped  over  to 

'the  deadfall  and  said  to  his  partner: 

"Deacon,  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  there  yesterday.     Bein'  as 

I'm  partner,  I  ought  to  come  in  for  half  the  cussin's — 

Huh!" 

The  Deacon  feigned  a  most  pious  "hit-me-on-the-other- 

cheek"  air,  and,  pointing  to  his  Bible,  said : 
"Forgive  him,  he  knew  not  what  he  did." 
"Oh,  huh  !     You  know  I'll  freely  forgive  him." 
"That's  right,  my  son,  perfectly  right.    '//  thine  enemy 

smite  thee' — elf? — eh?" 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale ! 


CHAPTEB  x  vni- 

LM:   j    ::. 


flat  the  Beacon  forgot  or 
it  safeh"  fn  Us  little 

it  draw  interest  Ac 

: :  II^-H:  "i:    ^-T    :  _:£  :; 


••  •*•  *  J3      J3  ' 

.:  - "    ~\i  .    '•'•-'--  :    .'-     -'  .       .'    '.:'-  r 
::  L  -L~      .--  -^-  .:  v-i.r  L!  :-_:  :-:  -::.    ;^ 


'.'. 


_!_t    1    "   r     J'l     I.":        LT    1     :.!':      >:-  . 


2O4  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

The  train  from  the  north  didn't  stop  at  Pike  in  those 
days,  but  threw  the  mail  off  as  she  passed.  She  had  scarcely 
cleared  the  corporation  limits  before  the  agent  came  bust- 
ling in  and  tossed  the  familiar-looking  sacks  over  the 
counter.  With  his  accustomed  circumspection,  the  old 
man  emptied  them,  and  began  assorting  their  contents, 
Deacon  Hicks  remarking  that  he'd  wait  for  his  mail. 

After  the  letters  had  been  stamped  and  pigeon-holed, 
there  remained  laying  on  the  table  a  long  envelope,  ad- 
dressed to  A.  B.  Dodd,  Esq. 

A.  B.  Dodd,  Esq.,  opened  it,  and  presently  called  to 
Hicks:  "Dee-con,  will  you  please  step  here?" 

"Cer-nly,  sir, — cer-nly,"  and  behind  the  case  he  went. 

"Here  it  is,"  said  the  old  man,  holding  out  a  slip  of 
paper." 

"You  mean  draft?" 

^es— the  dra-aft." 

"Congratulations,  sir;    congratulations,  dear  sir." 

"Dee-con,  I'd  like  to  go  right  up  to  teown  'n  get  the 
money,  but  Andy's  done  gone  'n  I  declare,  I " 

"Not  another  word,  sir !  Lessee,  lessee,  eight  ten — plenty 
time,  plenty  time — allow  me  to  go." 

"Dee-con,  that's  powerful  kind  of  you  to " 

"No  more,  sir — not  kind  at  all,  at  all — gives — greatest 
— pleasure;  now  just  Morse  it — 'dorse  it." 

"You  mean  put  my  name " 

"That's  it,  sir — right/there — little  further  up — there — 
good!  Now,  lessee,  eight  twelve, — ten  minutes  yet.  I'll 
step  over — Court  House." 

"Well — Dee-con,  'fore  you  go,  lemme  give  you  a  little  tin 
box  I  got  here — it'll  be  the  very  thing  to  put  the  money 
in — here  it  is." 


HICKS,    PEDRO    AND   CO. 

"Beautiful — beau-tiful,  sir — just  it." 

"It's  a  box  they  sent  me  from  the  Department  when 
I  was  first  appointed — see,  it's  got  U.  S.  on  it." 

"U.  S.— the  very  thing " 

"'N  Dee-con,  git  it  all  in  currency." 

"Currency — good,  sir, — lessee,  eight  fifteen, — good-bye, 
sir;  be  home  this  evening." 

A  cordial  handshake  and  the  Deacon,  the  draft  and  the 
little  box  departed.  That  afternoon,  at  three  thirty  to  the 
dot,  the  Deacon,  the  little  box,  and  a  package  of  nice,  new, 
crisp  greenbacks,  walked  into  the  post-office,  followed  by 
Whittledom.  The  news  had  gone  around,  and  Old  Man 
Dodd  had  told  over  and  over  again  just  what  he  had  said, 
and  just  what  the  "Dee-con"  had  said,  and  all  about  it — 
little  box,  U.  S.,  and  all.  After  the  greenbacks  were  viewed 
by  enraptured  Whittledom,  Hicks  and  Old  Man  Dodd 
retired  to  the  latter's  sleeping  room.  Closeted  together 
there,  Hicks  informed  his  "dear  old  friend"  that  he  would 
gladly  offer  him  his  safe  for  temporary  use,  but  it  was 
such  an  old,  easily-gotten-into  affair,  that  he,  himself,  never 
kept  much  cash  in  it,  and  since  he  and  Matthew  had  gone 
into  partnership,  he  had  been  more  careful  than  ever,  as 
it  was  his  duty  to  be  on  Mat's  account. 

The  Deacon  whipped  the  Devil  around  a  regular  Califor- 
nia stump  in  telling  this,  and  it  was  all  wasted,  for  the  old 
man  said,  when  Hicks  had  finished :  "I'm  powerful  obliged 
to  you,  Dee-con,  but  I  ain't  a-skeered  to  keep  it  here ;  I  got 
no  enemies,  thank  the  Lord !  'n  I  don't  believe  the  world's 
as  bad  as  it's  made  out  to  be  nohow.  I'll  jes  put  it  right 
down  in  this  little  trunk,  snug  as  you  please;  Andy'll  be 
home  by  supper,  'n  it'll  give  the  dear  boy  a  hearty  appetite 
to  take  a  look  at  his  money — 'n,  Dee-con,  Andy  may  be  jes 


206  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

a  leetle  wild,  Jn  hot-headed,  but  he'll  come  out  strong  yet  'n 
make  that  money  count." 

Hicks  thought  so,  too — had  thought  so  all  along — and 
after  assisting  the  old  man  to  put  the  box  away  (and 
noticing  the  trunk  lock  was  broken),  took  his  leave. 

Supper  time  came,  but  Andy  didn't;  night  time  came, 
but  still  no  Andy;  and  after  prolonging  his  bedtime  until 
far  past  his  usual  hour,  Old  Man  Dodd  retired  alone. 

There  are  very  few  business  firms  that  cannot  be  found 
in  Bradstreet's,  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  firm 
which  was  established  that  night  in  Pike  is  one  of  them — 
"Hicks,  Pedro  &  Co."  The  firm  was  organized  shortly 
after  dusk  in  the  Deacon's  sanctuary,  and  after  an  execu- 
tive session  of  an  hour's  duration,  took  a  recess.  Later  in 
the  night  the  firm  again  held  a  business  meeting,  evidently 
for  the  purpose  of  capitalizing  stock,  for  a  package  of  crisp, 
Hew  greenbacks  was  much  in  evidence.  When  the  meeting 
adjourned,  the  afore-mentioned  package  was  placed  in  a 
neat  little  tin  box  bearing  the  initials  IT.  S.,  and  that  was 
in  turn,  placed  in  the  Deacon's  trunk. 

The  following  morning  Andy  and  the  Otts  returned 
from  Fritz's,  and  had  hardly  entered  town  before  being 
apprised  of  the  draft's  arrival.  Andy  hurried  over  home 
and  received  in  detail  from  his  father  the  much-rehashed 
account  of  what  had  been  said  and  done  on  the  day  before ; 
and  then  the  old  man,  beaming  with  anticipations  of  Andy's 
delight,  took  his  son  back  to  the  trunk,  raised  the  lid,  and 
said: 

"Now,  Andy,  you  lift  the  tray  up  'n  I'll  git  it." 

Up  went  the  tray,  and  the  old  man  stooped  down,  mur- 
muring : 

"It's  right  in  this  corner,  underneath  my  winter — why, 
let — me — see — no — maybe  I  put  it  in  the  other  corner — 


HICKS,    PEDRO   AND   CO.  2O7 

I'll  de — clare — maybe  it's  at  the  bottom — Andy!  Andy! 
Andy!  It's  gone — my  Lord!  it's  gone!" 

Down  fell  the  tray;  down  knelt  Andy — right  and  left 
went  the  contents  of  the  trunk,  and  finally,  young  Dodd, 
perspiring  and  trembling,  gasped: 

"Gone,  by  G— d !     You've  played  h— 1,  pa !" 

Gone  it  was,  and  the  poor  old  man  sobbed  like  a  child 
(as,  indeed,  he  was  in  all  but  age),  and  heard  not  the 
harsh,  wicked,  unfilial  words  of  his  son.  Poor  old  man — 
left  a  widower  when  Andy  was  in  knee-breeches — con- 
centrating all  his  hopes  on  his  only  child,  and  now,  when 
needing  the  affection  and  strong  arm  of  that  child,  to 
have  a  profane  exclamation  of  selfish  chagrin  hurled  at 
his  gray  head.  The  loss  of  money !  What  was  it  ?  Some- 
thing ascertainable  and  attainable  by  dollars  and  cents — by 
labor,  by  supply  and  demand,  by  skill,  by  luck,  by  chance, 
by  theft:  a  sum — a  fortune,  if  you  will — but  something 
that  represented  to  Andy  not  one  tithe  of  the  princely 
fortune  he  had  in  an  example  of  integrity,  Christianity  and 
humility.  The  loss  of  the  greenbacks!  The  repeatedly 
voluntary  rejection  of  a  legacy  of  rectitude  and  righteous- 
ness !  The  two  won't  bear  comparison,  and  contrast  but 
minimizes  the  one  and  magnifies  the  other.  Day  after  day, 
year  after  year,  Andy  had  let  Sin  steal  his  father's  teach- 
ings, little  thinking  that  the  grave  grew  ever  closer,  little 
supposing  that  once  gone,  "The  wealth  of  every  treasure 
store"  could  not  bring  back  his  sire — and  little  caring  ! 

Money — the  earning  of  which  Andy  held  in  the  skill 
of  his  own  good  right  hand ;  placed  higher  in  his  heart  than 
a  heritage  of  honor.  Well  had  the  mentor,  Bill  Ott,  taught 
his  pupil !  iSTow,  when  he  could  witness  grief  for  him 
only  and  not  for  the  money  in  itself;  now,  when  he  could 
stab  that  grief  with  "You've  played  h — 1,  pa!"  now,  I 


2O8  MATTHEW   DOYLE, 

say,  was  he  truly  fit  for  a  diploma   signed  by  depravity's 
entire  faculty. 


Every  effort  was  made,  but  no  trace  could  be  found  of 
the  money,  or  the  thief  or  thieves.  It  seemed  insoluble. 
The  firm  of  "Hicks,  Pedro  &  Co."  were  silent  partners,  as 
silent  as  futurity,  the  Sphinx,  and  the  Seven  Sleepers  com- 
bined and  condensed.  The  night  the  money  was  stolen, 
just  as  the  firm  adjourned,  and,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, dissolved,  the  senior  member  whispered  to  the  junior 
member : 

"Pedro — must  lie  low — low,  Pedro,  low.  Soon — excite- 
ment blows  over — authorities  quiet  down — division — you 
your  share — me,  mine,  eh,  Pedro,  eh  ?" 

Pedro  "eh'd"  and  assented,  knowing  the  "sanctuary" 
would  be  the  last  place  in  the  world  searched,  and  the 
Deacon  the  last  human,  being  suspected. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
"HELP  !" 

TIME  kept  rolling  on  in  Pike  pretty  much  after  the 
same  fashion  of  its  rolling  in  other  places — only,  maybe, 
not  as  varied. 

The  Dodd  robbery  was  still  unravelled,  and  though  Mat 
had  worked  tirelessly  on  the  case,  it  was  a  case  that  wouldn't 
untangle  for  Mat  or  anybody  else.  The  Deacon  from  time 
to  time  had  essayed  to  coach  his  partner,  suggesting  pos- 
sible clews  that  turned  out  with  a  monotonous  sameness, — 
to  wit,  nil.  As  for  Old  Man  Dodd,  he  remained  as  dazed 
as  though  humanity's  perpetual  Lawn-Mower  had  never 
rolled  an  inch  since  the  greenbacks  disappeared.  He  saw 
and  noted  (and  his  heart  bled  thereat),  Andy's  reckless 
course,  and,  simple-minded  old  fellow  that  he  was,  he 
cherished  a  mute  hope  that  whoever  took  the  money  would 
also  see  and  note  his  boy's  kennel-ward  drift  and  return 
the  money,  thereby  damming  the  drift.  But  as  the  good 
old  Christian  never  gave  voice  to  the  hope,  the  hypoth- 
ecator  of  those  greenbacks  couldn't  ever  become  aware  of  it, 
— or  the  greenbacks  would  most  assuredly  have  been  replaced 
— with  interest.  He  consulted  Brother  Hicks  about  the 
advisability  of  posting  a  notice  of  his  hope  in  the  shape 
of  a  reward,  but  upon  the  Deacon  informing  him  that 
that  wo  aid  constitute  the  fearful  crime  of  compounding  a 
felony,  the  old  man  alarmedly  abandoned  the  notion. 

So  it  went — or,  more  precisely,  so  it  stopped.  Panta- 

[209] 


2IO  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

looned  Pike's  bucolic  Pinkertons  gave  it  up,  and  resumed 
whittling;  Petticoated  Pike  did  likewise,  and  resumed 
scandal  and  kindred  neighborly  diversions — or,  in  other 
words,  the  particular  criminal  not  being  located,  they  went 
back  to  their  occupation  of  manufacturing  bad  characters 
at  second  hand. 

Mat  and  the  Deacon  were  the  only  people  in  the  country 
who  held  to  it — Mat  from  a  sincerely  disinterested  desire 
to  recover  the  money,  and  Hicks  from  a  sincerely  interested 
desire  to  keep  his  partners  mind  from  (sawmill)  business 
worries. 

Andy,  when  he  found  Time  so  unaccommodating  about 
its  rolling,  and  no  signs  of  apprehending  the  taker  or  the 
taken,  took  the  next  best  thing — a  firmer  grip  on  the  moral 
toboggan  slide  than  he  had  hitherto  enjoyed.  He  wouldn't 
have  gone  back  to  Hicks  for  any  consideration,  although 
Hicks  was  (good  soul!)  more  than  willing  to  reinstate 
him,  telling  Mat  that  "  'To  err  was  human  and'  eh?  eh? 
Matthew  ?"  and  "Matthew,"  needless  to  say,  replied,  "Huh, 
'course,  Deacon :  Lord  knows  I  bear  him  no  malice."  But 
Andy  bore  enough  malice  for  Mat  and  him  both,  and  at  the 
bare  suggestion  of  returning  to  his  old  duties  (with  better 
pay,  too,  which  was  Mat's  work),  sneered: 

"Me  go  back  to  firm'  for  that  push,  after  the  way  they've 
acted  ?  Not  by  a  h— 1  of  a  d— n  sight !" 

He  did  venture  up  to  city  and  even  joined  the  union,  but 
as  his  father  had  to  go-, up  a  few  days  later  and  bail  him 
out  of  the  caliboose,  he  concluded  that  Pike  and  liberty 
(license)  was  preferable  to  the  city  and  calibooses;  so  he 
came  back  to  Bill  of  profane  fame,  and  having  several 
flasks  secreted  about  him,  was,  if  you  will  believe  me, 
welcomed  with  salvos  of  sulphuric  salutations. 

"Pedro"  had  essayed  to  re-enter  the  gaieties  of  urban  life 


"  HELP  "  211 

several  times,  but  the  Deacon  gave  first  one  plausible  reason 
for  postponing  the  division  of  the  greenbacks,  and  then 
another,  until  early  summer  had  nigh  set  in  and  found 
our  sable  friend  still  waiting,  though  he  was  not  waiting 
as  still  as  Hicks  could  wish.  Occasionally  he  managed  to 
obtain  a  small  advancement  on  the  dividend,  but  Bill  and 
Andy  and  Constable  Tobe  usually  had  it  discounted  by  mid- 
night, for  although  the  negro  was  proficient  in  metropol- 
itan card  methods,  he  found  the  rural  white  man's  burden 
a  losing  game  in  Pike. 

Miss  Hennon's  second  term  was  drawing  to  a  close.  She 
had  grown  to  be  a  general  favorite,  not  alone  with  the 
young  folks,  but  the  old  ones  as  well.  When  she  first 
came,  Pike  eyed  her  somewhat  askance.  Dud,  who  had 
jiot  then  lost  prestige,  had  negatively  opposed  her  selec- 
tion, from  a  natural  and  laudable  enough  point  of  view; 
and  Pike  echoed  his  sentiments,  not  because  of  any  sec- 
tional prejudice,  you  understand,  but  because  every  town 
or  county  likes  "home  talent"  best;  and,  for  my  part,  if 
'liome  talent"  isn't  supported  at  Iwme,  and  is  even  half- 
way worthy  of  support,  why,  the  chances  are,  it  will  have 
an  uphill  fight  getting  it  abroad. 

Of  coiirse,  citizens  of  the  Ott  calibre  opposed  Miss  Hen- 
non,  just  as  they  would  oppose  the  Saviour  Himself,  if  he 
had  hailed  from  Yankee-land;  but  the  citizens  of  the  Ott 
calibre  were  the  very  same  citizens  who  bushwhacked  and 
pillaged  and  fought  bluecoats  every  way  except  face  to 
face  in  the  sixties;  were  the  very  citizens  who  were  negro 
overseers  in  the  fifties,  and  negro  seducers  in  the  seven- 
ties ;  were  the  verj  citizens  who  cried  "Hurrah !"  when  the 
South's  best  friend  fell  in  Ford's  Theatre  (and  when  the 
real  Confederates  were  genuinely  indignant  at  the  assassin- 
ation) ;  were  the  very  citizens — but  why  go  on?  That 


212  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

calibre  may  control  the  miserable,  little,  non-representative, 
back-water  stations  along  the  railroads,  but  they  will  never 
control  the  sons  of  Stevens,  Davis,  Lee,  Lamar,  Beck  and 
Grady.  That  calibre  is  a  curse,  but  not  a  criterion;  and 
so  the  little  teacher  taught  on,  and  her  well  wishers  were 
legion.  At  the  close  of  the  first  term  she,  in  conjunction 
with  some  mothers  and  big  sisters,  had  given  the  scholars 
a  pic-nic;  this  year  it  was  to  be  repeated,  and  from  the 
amount  of  cakes  and  pies  and  things  being  made  at  the 
Doyleses,  Mat  observed: 

"Picnic !  I  say  pic-nic — to-morrow  the  doctor'll  say  "Gee 
whillikens!" 

"Never  mind,  Laura,"  laughed  Mother  Doyle,  "he's  jea 
mad  'cause  he  ain't  a-goin'. " 

<fWhy !"  Mat  exclaimed  (powerfully  innocent),  "I  hadn't 
heard  I  wasn't  a-goin'." 

"Well,  you  hear  it  now,"  declared  the  little  teacher,  shak- 
ing a  gingerbread  horse  at  him,  and  continuing,  "no  men 
allowed." 

"You  all  goin'  down  to  the  valley,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  you'll  be  in  a  quarter  or  so  of  Dud's,  'n  I  bet  he'll 
come  down  'n  make  you  all  pay  for  trespassing.  It'd  take 
one  o'  those  cotton  baskets  o'  lixin's  to  do  him." 

Mat  hoisted  one  of  the  baskets  up  on  his  right  shoulder 
and  started  for  the  wagon,  and  the  schoolmarm  said  in  a 
stage  whisper  to  Mother  /Doyle : 

"Id  better  follow  him ; gracious  knows  what  he'll  eat!" 
Mat  (who,  of  course,  didn't  hear!)  reached  his  disengaged 
hand  over  in  the  hamper  and  Laura  lit  out  to  overtake  and 
stop  him,  whereat  Mother  Doyle  seemed  mightily  tickled. 

Betty  couldn't  go;  that  is,  I  say,  she  couldn't — she 
didn't.  She  said  to  Mother  Doyle,  the  evening  before : 


"HELP!"  213 

"Now,  ma,  don't  less  have  any  arguin'  about  it;  I'm 
young  'n  got  lots  o'  picnics  ahead,  while  you  haven't.  Mat's 
goin'  to  cradle  those  oats  to-morrow  'n  a  cold  dinner  ain't 
to  be  thought  of  for  him;  it's  nothin'  but  drudge,  drudge, 
drudge  with  him  in  that  Sheriff's  office,  'n  now  that  he's 
airain'  to  take  a  little  breathin'  spell  cradlin',  picnic  or  no 
picnic,  I'll  stay  home  an'  fix  him  up  a  good  dinner." 

Mother  Doyle  heartily  concurred  in  this ;  in  fact,  the  only 
point  she  had  argued  had  been  her  staying  home  in  place 
of  Betty,  and  Betty  wouldn't  have  a  word  of  it — not  a 
word.  So  on  the  eventful  morning  (early,  too!)  Mat 
helped  Mother  Doyle  in  the  big  four-mule  wagon  (one  of 
the  mill  feed  wagons,  gotten  up  for  the  occasion  and  gotten 
up  regardless,  too!),  and  then  he  swung  the  little  teacher 
over  the  side  just  as  easy  as  if  she  was  a  bag  of  candy 
(which  Mat  thought  she  was!),  and,  finally,  he  tossed 
youngsters  in  like  so  many  acorns,  and  up  the  county  road 
they  all  started,  "screamin',  'n  scramblin',"  said  Mat  to 
Betty  "to  beat  six  bits;  huh!  huh!  huh!"  That  full- 
hearted  "huh !  huh !  huh !"  was  worth  even  a  Dewey  day 
to  Betty,  and  such  a  dinner  Mat  sat  down  to ! 

Dud  knew  about  the  picnic.  The  valley  where  it  was 
to  be  held  belonged  to  the  Trenome  tract — was  a  neat, 
snug,  little,  straggling  vale,  not  big  enough  to  be  called  a 
valley,  but  the  nearest  approach  to  one  Pike  could  boast  of. 
For  many  years  it  had  been  used  by  picnickers  and  all  sorts 
of  merry-makers.  Many  the  day's  frolic  Dud  had  enjoyed 
in  it  during  his  boyhood ;  and  the  days  he  had  mused  away 
up  and  down  its  fern-dotted  course  since  the  night  he  met 
Her  were  not  few  in  number.  The  first  Sunday  after  he 
had  commenced  repairs  on  the  farm  he  put  in  meander- 
ing among  the  trees  nnd  aloner  the  valley  brook ;  and  nearly 
every  successive  Sunday  until  the  day  he  withdrew  from  the 


214  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Sheriff's  race.  Occasionally,  since  then,  once  a  month,  or 
maybe  not  so  frequent,  he  had  strolled  over,  but  he  never 
lingered.  The  negro  Ed  told  him  at  dinner  that  the  pic- 
nickers were  having  "a  monstrous  fine  time  down  the 
valley,  'n  had  sent  word  up  for  Mister  Dudley  to  come  an' 
eat  a  bite  with  'em."  Dud  said  maybe  he'd  ride  down 
later — he  wasn't  sure — and  then  he  went  to  talking  about 
cotton  and  how  the  "stands"  looked,  as  though  he  had 
forgotten  the  picnic.  But  after  pottering  around  the  house 
and  barn  in  an  undecided  way  for  a  couple  of  hours  or 
more,  he  saddled  up  "Betty's  pony"  and  put  off  slowly 
down  the  road.  Some  six  or  eight  hundred  yards  from  the 
fence  the  declivity  leading  to  the  vale  began,  and  kept  up 
for  quite  a  distance — a  mile,  I  expect — and  nowhere  was 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  through  which  wound  the  brook, 
what  you  would  call  out  of  good  hearing  distance  from 
the  road — though  children  could  easily  be  lost  to  view  in 
the  undergrowth.  The  eating  ground  was  near  the  begin- 
ning of  the  miniature  canyon,  and  when  Dud  came  opposite 
it  he  began  to  hear  the  laughter  and  shouts  of  the  young 
folks.  He  at  first  reined  up,  but  seemed  to  change  his 
mind,  and  murmured,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "Go  on, 
little  pony,  't  ain't  fair  to  Mat — she's  his'n — get  up!" 
Every  now  and  then  he  saw  the  flit  of  childish  forms  dash- 
ing to  and  fro,  but  they  grew  fewer  as  the  little  pony  trotted 
on  and  came  towards  the  lower  end  of  the  valley.  Once 
Dud  had  seen  Mother  poyle  swarmed  over  by  a  crowd  of 
tots,  but  She  had  not  crossed  his  vision,  which  he  thought 
natural  enough,  for  She  wasn't  "much  bigger'n  a  pa'tridge," 
and  he  smiled  for  memory's  sake.  He  supposed  he  had 
about  passed  the  last  of  the  merry-makers,  and  was  saying 
to  the  pony,  "Trot  up,  young  *nn ;  we'll  make  town  and 
back  'fore  supper."  He  raised  up  in  order  to  seat  himself 


"HELPP  215 

more  lirmly,  when  there  came  a  cry — a  woman's  voice  in 
fright,  in  agony,  cried  "Help !" — and  the  pony  didn't  wait 
to  be  turned :  she  wheeled  whence  the  piercing  shriek  came 
from  the  valley,  and  her  rider  shouted  with  the  fury  of 
ten  thousand  demons: 

"God  Almighty !  It's  Laura  !" 

o       •/ 

A  moment  later  he  was  by  her  side,  and  groaned  in  agony 
as  he  saw  her  lying  unconscious  on  the  ground,  and  a 
ghastly  smear  of  blood  on  her  fair  face.  Beside  her  lay 
a  scattered  heap  of  ferns,  and  he  knew  she  had  strayed 
off  from  the  parly  gathering  them ;  and,  further  on,  a  yard 
perhaps,  was  a  well-worn,  brown  derby.  Dud  thought  he 
recognized  it,  but  he  had  no  time  to  pause.  He  placed 
Laura  across  his  saddle  and  galloped  up  the  ravine ;  he  saw 
Mother  Doyle  and  some  of  the  larger  children  hurrying 
towards  him — they  had  heard  his  terrible  shout.  When  he 
reached  them  he  tenderly  lifted  the  little  teacher  down,  and 
said  in  a  breath: 

"Mother  Doyle,  here — quick ! — one  of  you  boys  bring  the 
team — make  time  ! — you  know  where  old  man  Honeyburr's 
is,  Mother  Doyle.  It's  a  half-mile  straight  across  yonder 
'n  a  quarter  closer  'n  my  house ;  take  her  right  there'  n  tell 
old  man  Honeyburr  to  come  to  Pike  at  once  'n  bring  his 
gun — come  straight  to  Mat;  thank  God  we've  got  a  good 
Sheriff,  for  we  need  one  this  day !" 

He  turned  back  down  and  soon  came  to  where  the  hat 
lay,  stooping,  but  not  stopping,  he  picked  it  up,  and  saw  a 
name  scrawled  in  rude  characters  on  the  sweatband. 

"It's  him— I  knew  it— Tedro !'  " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  STORM  GATHERS. 

DUD  gained  the  road,  and  started  at  a  furious  pace  for 
Pike.  He  seldom,  if  ever,  used  a  whip  or  spur  to  his 
animals,  especially  those  he  had  taken  young;  but  now 
there  was  no  need  for  either.  The  little  pony  caught  the 
fever  of  his  excitement,  and  bent  her  every  muscle  to  the 
task.  True,  he  urged  her  in  no  very  mild  language,  and 
constantly  patted  her  flanks  and  wethers  vigorously ;  but  he 
would  have  choked  without  some  outlet  to  his  passion.  The 
veins  in  his  neck  stood  out  until  it  seemed  as  if  they  would 
burst,  and  had  the  pony  abated  one  jot  of  her  speed,  he 
would  have  jumped  frenziedly  down  and  tore  on  alone. 
But  he  was  astride  as  game  a  piece  of  horseflesh  as  Pike 
boasted — a  tight,  stocky  roan,  with  the  endurance  of  a 
broncho,  and  intelligence  for  a  dozen  ordinary  plugs.  She 
knew  when  her  master,  (though  I  should  be  more  correct 
in  saying  her  playfellow),  was  out  for  pleasure,  and  when 
for  business,  and  that  her  ride  now  was  on  the  most  press- 
ing business  he  had  ever  ridden  her  to,  she  realized  from  the 
instant  they  started. 

The  pebbles  and  dirt- flew  in  a  constant  rain  from  either 
side  as  she  plowed  her  way  onward — leaping  mud  holes, 
taking  short  cuts  at  turns,  over  bushes  and  between  trees, 
getting  wind  up  one  rise  for  a  mad  dash  down  another; 
performing  these  and  numberless  other  feats  that  would 
have  long  since  thrown  an  inexperienced  rider,  the  pony  and 
[216] 


THE   STORM    GATHERS.  2 IJ 

Dud  passed  roadside  fields  with  almost  engine-like  rapidity. 
The  fences  on  either  hand  were  strung  out  in  the  fashion 
one  watches  them  from  a  train,  and  it  would  seem  an  impos- 
sibility to  note  individual  objects.  Yet  Dud's  eyes  wore 
sweeping  every  field,  every  opening ;  he  paid  no  heed  to  the 
road,  reposing  full  confidence  in  his  mount,  but  scrutinized 
the  country-side,  and  whenever  he  saw  some  neighbor  he 
would  slacken  up  and  halloo  loudly. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  farmers  were  busy 
with  the  growing  crops,  going  through  the  furrows  of  the 
corn  and  cotton,  or  getting  in  early  oats,  and  time  and 
again  as  he  neared  Pike  did  Dud  rise  in  his  stirrups  and 
call: 

"Whoo-hee  !  Come  here,  quick !" 

The  plow  or  the  cradle  would  stop,  and  across  the  land 
would  lope  some  neighbor  who  knew  Dud  never  took  people 
from  work  unnecessarily.  Arriving  near  enough  to  be 
hailed  understandingly  Dud  would  cry : 

"Get  your  gun,  and  meet  me  at  the  Sheriff's  office  in 
town ;  don't  lose  a  minute — and  keep  your  eye  peeled  for 
Pedro,  you  hear?  All  right !  Tell  you  all  in  town — hurry 
—get  up !" 

Away  would  dash  the  pony,  leaving  wonderment,  almost 
consternation,  behind  her.  But  no  one  lagged  .  Men-folks 
burst  breathlessly  up  to  their  cottages  and  shouted: 

"Quick,  everybody!  Get  my  shotgun,  Sally;  put  some 
shells  in  my  pocket,  Lucy ;  hurry,  all  hands — I'm  off  to  the 
stable — bring  the  things  out  there — load  the  gun — don't 
ask  me  no  questions,  move,  I  tell  ye !" 

Then  there  would  be  saddling  in  haste  and  parting 
instructions  to  watch  out  for  Pedro,  and  keep  the  guns 
readv;  and  before  Dud's  portv  was  woll  ont  of  hearing  her 
tracks  were  covered  by  a  galloping  follower. 


21  8  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

On,  on,  on,  tore  our  friend,  sounding  the  alarm  to  all  he 
saw;  and,  at  last,  when  he  turned  into  the  long  stretch 
leading  past  the  Doyles'  into  town,  he  gave  one  ringing  yell 
that  brought  Pike  to  its  feet.  Pine  sticks  were  cast  aside, 
knives  shut,  pipes  dropped  and  Old  Man  Dodd's  porch, 
Uncle  Alec  McXeiPs  gallery,  and  the  depot  platform,  were 
alive  with  eager  faces. 

"Why,  it's  Dud,"  declared  one. 

"Drinkin'?"  surmised  another. 

"Pshaw!  no — Dud  ain't  touched  a  drop  in  "  put 

in  some  one  else,  interrupted  by  a  fourth,  who  said :  "He's 
beckoning  to  us — see,  he's  stopped  at  Mother  Doyles' — he's 
dismountin' — he's " 

But  just  then  another  yell  came  pealing  down  the  road, 
and  the  now  thoroughly  alarmed  lookers  started  with  one 
accord — the  younger  and  more  impetuous  outstripping  the 
older  and  cooler  heads. 

Dud,  meanwhile,  after  shouting  to  the  oncoming  crowd 
to  wait  at  the  fence,  ran  around  the  walk,  and,  seeing  Betty 
in  the  kitchen  lighting  the  fire  for  supper,  addressed  her  as 
mildly  as  he  could.  He  knew  her  quick  nature,  and  feared 
to  shock  her  by  his  agitation ;  but  it  was  a  herculean  attempt 
to  pretend  calmness.  His  whole  being  was  on  fire — one 
second  he  cursed  himself  for  not  remaining  with  Miss 
Laura ;  another,  he  cursed  himself  for  not  searching  imme- 
diately for  Pedro,  and  so  on ;  a  thousand  flames  were  at 
his  heart;  everything7  he  did  seemed  the  very  thing  he 
ought  not  to  have  done.  Eeason,  or  even  think,  coherently, 
he  couldn't ;  as  well  ask  a  meteor  falling  from  above  to  select 
its  striking  place.  He  was  insane,  yet  possessed  every  fac- 
ulty, and  had  done  nothing  amiss.  He  dared  not  stop 
before  the  kitchen  door,  for  then  Betty  would  see  him  quiv- 


THE   STORM    GATHERS.  2 19 

•ering  and  note  the  streams  of  perspiration  that  soaked  his 
clothing,  so  he  called : 

"Hello,  Bet — where's  Mat  ?"  and  essayed  a  smile. 

Great  God !  a  smile,  he  thought,  and  Miss  Laura  uncon- 
scious, perhaps  dead! 

"Why,  hello  Dud !  Laws  a  mercy,  you  scare  me  like  that 
agin  and  I'll — why,  what's  the  matter?'' 

No  use  for  Dud  to  have  kept  moving  from  side  to  side, 
pretending  to  be  looking  out  in  the  field  for  Mat.  Betty 
was  too  keen  not  to  see  that  something  extraordinary  was 
up.  Dud  answered: 

"Don't  ask  me,  but  where  is  Mat  ?" 

"Binding  oats  down  in  the  new  ground — tell  me, 
Dud — "  Her  curiosity  had  to  wait.  Dud  was  gone — 
stopping  every  dozen  yards  and  shouting : 

"Whoo-hee,  Mat,  whoo-hee-e-e !  Come  to  the  house! 
whoo-hee-e-e !" 

He  had  covered  rome  hundred  or  more  yards,  when  he 
heard  the  faint  sound  of  an  answer  and  paused  to  catch  the 
•words. 

cr\Yhoo-hee !"  it  came,  ever  so  light,  and  Dud  thought, 
"Oh,  damn  it !  he's  'way  down  in  the  far  end." 

"Whoo-hee!"  it  sounded,  just  a  little  plainer. 

Dud  drew  in  all  the  air  his  broad  chest  could  hold,  and, 
making  a  trumpet  of  his  hands,  he  replied : 

"Come  to  the  house — li-u-r-r-y!" 

"Comin',"  came  back  the  answer,  a  little  plainer  still, 
and  Dud  murmured,  "Thank  God !  I'll  bet  those  long  legs 
o'  his  are  coverin'  ten  feet  to  the  .jump." 

He  slowed  up  somewhat  until  full  out  of  sight  of  the 
road,  and  then  dropped  panting  on  a  log.  He  wanted  to 
tell  Mat  first — for  many  reasons.  Officially,  Mat  was  the 
one  to  know  it  first,  and  his  position  towards  Laura  gave 


22O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

him  the  right ;  and,  too,  Dud  wanted  to  appear  as  cool  as 
possible  before  the  crowd.  Every  minute  he  could  hear 
the  clatter  of  hoofs,  as  somebody  he  had  summoned  came 
in ;  then  he  could  hear  murmuring  from  the  men,  and  knew 
they  were  vainly  seeking  information  of  each  new-comer. 

Betty  had  run  down  the  back-porch  steps  when  Dud  put 
off  in  quest  of  Mat,  and,  seeing  the  leaders  of  the  crowd 
coming  pell-mell  towards  the  front  gate,  and  then  stop, 
she  ran  out  to  meet  them,  hastily  tying  her  apron. 

"Where's  Dud,  Betty?"  called  one. 

"What's  happened?"  another  asked. 

"Who's  shot?"  shouted  Bill  Ott,  puffing  dreadfully, 
and  the  questions  came  in  volleys.  When  Betty  found  an 
opening  she  replied: 

"Gracious,  /  don't  know;  Dud's  gone  crazy,  I  believe. 
What  is  the  matter — was  that  him  hollered  so  awful  out 

here?  I  thought "  she  was  about  to  say  she  thought 

it  was  some  drunken  fellow,  but  she  observed  Andy  back  on 
the  edge  of  the  gathering. 

"Yes,  that  was  him,"  everybody  answered,  and  one  cool 
fellow  put  the  previous  question: 

"Where  is  he,  Bet?" 

"He  bounced  off  after  Mat,  whoopur  every  step  of  the 
way.  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  o'  him — wonder  if  his 
house  is  a-fire?" 

At  that  instant  a  rider  galloped  up  from  the  direction 
Dud  had  come,  and  halted  his  reeking  horse  at  the  crowd. 
He  was  immediately  assailed  with  inquiries  put  in  every 
distracting  shape  until  he  finally  threw  up  his  hands  in 
despair : 

"Stop,  for  goodness'  sake !"  he  screamed ;  "air  you  all 
gone  daft,  too :  Dud  passed  my  house  like  a  wild  man,  an' 
hollered,  'Bring  your  gun,'  an'  here  it  is,  an'  that's  all  I 


THE  STORM    GATHERS.  221 

know.  He  did  say  somethin'  about  watchin'  out,  but  none 
of  us  could  understand  him.  I  watched  out,  though,  all 
the  way  in,  an'  kept  my  gun  cocked,  but  I  ain't  seen 
nothin'." 

"Here  comes  another,  an'  two  more  behind  him — all 
armed!"  exclaimed  Bill  Ott,  peering  up  the  road: 

"D — d  if  the  war  ain't  broke  .out  agin." 

The  new  arrivals  were  besieged  with  questions  also,  and, 
in  turn,  asked  what  it  all  meant.  One  of  them  said  he 
understood  Dud  to  say,  "Look  out  for  Pedro/'  but  he 
wasn't  sure,  as  he  was  quite  a  ways  off. 

"Pedro !"  echoed  everybody  amazedly. 

Then  speculation  began.  Pedro,  Pedro,  Pedro,  was  on 
every  lip.  What  had  he  done  ?  Whose  house  had  he  burnt  ? 
Who  had  he  killed?  Robbed?  In  short  they  went  down 
the  calendar  of  crime  and  left  out  the  very  one.  Wicked 
Bill  suggested  that  maybe  Pedro  had  been  caught  sober, 
which  was  quite  as  accurate  as  the  other  guesses. 

Speculation  speculated  itself  clear  out  of  sense  and 
reason,  and  still  no  light  on  the  subject.  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six,  seven  farmers  rode  up,  all  armed,  and  all 
from  Dud  Trenome's  direction.  Most  of  them  had  heard 
the  warning,  "Watch  out  for  Pedro !"  but  none  knew  what 
for,  nor  had  anybody  seen  the  negro. 

"Here  comes  old  man  Honeyburr,"  broke  off  Wicked 
Bill,  who  was  too  far  on  the  outskirts  for  Betty  to  hear  him, 
"ridin'  like  h — 1  was  after  him;  if  he  don't  know  what 
Pedro's  done,  by  G — d,  less  get  drunk  an'  go  to  bed.  The 
whole  d — d  State'll  be  here  presently." 

Old  man  Honeyburr  reined  up  pantingly,  and  gasped  to 
Betty :  "Go,  my  child,  an'  fetch  me  a  gourd  o'  water.  Gee 
whillikens  !  I'm  fagged — hey — uh — hey,  uh-hey,  uh-hey !" 
and  he  and  his  horse  tried  valiantly  to  out-puff  each  other. 


222  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

Betty  had  no  sooner  got  beyond  earshot  when  the  old  farmer 
asked  in  a  stage  whisper : 

"Seen  Pedro?" 

"No !"  replied  all. 

"He  has  outraged  the  school  marm!" 


Dud,  straining  his  eyes,  at  last  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mat 
pushing  on  with  long  strides  up  the  wood's  path,  and  he 
arose  from  the  log  and  advanced  quickly :  As  soon  as  Mat 
beheld  him,  he  waved  his  old  battered  straw  hat,  and  the  two 
friends  increased  their  gait  and  were  soon  grasping  each 
other's  hands. 

"Trouble,  Dud?" 

"Yes,  that  scoundrel  Pedro  has  assaulted  Miss  Hennon !" 

Mat's  grip  tightened  on  Dud's  hand,  and  his  always  pale 
face  became  ghastly  in  its  pallor.  But  still  he  remained) 
cool. 

"Is  it  so — are  you  sure.  Dud?"  he  asked,  giving  him  a 
piercing  look  with  his  honest  gray  eyes. 

"Positive — I  got  there  in  time  to " 

"Save  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank  heaven!  Pedro's  at  large?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  out?"  ,/ 

A  fierce  roar  burst  on  their  ears  from  the  direction  of 
the  road,  the  result  of  old  man  Honeyburr's  news,  and  Dud 
pointed  mutely  whence  it  came.  Mat  started  forward,  almost 
dragging  Dud,  and  said: 

"We  must  hurry,  then — if  they  catch  him  he'll  be " 


THE   STORM    GATHERS.  223 

"Lynched!"  finished  Dud,  wrathfully;  "lynched,  and, 
by  the  Eternal,  I  want  to  be  there " 

"Hush,  Dud !"  , 

Mat  turned  and  faced  him.  There  was  something 
sublime  in  the  majesty  of  his  look, — something  that  stayed 
DucPs  tongue  and  made  him  turn  his  eyes  away. 

"Dud  Trenome,  I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  your  mag- 
nanimity. Is  that  debt  to  be  wiped  out  now  by  your  own 
rash  act?  Are  you,  the  most  generous  of  men,  going  to 
desert  your  friend?" 

"No,  Mat,  not  for  a  thousand  Pedros — but,  think,  old 
feller- — think !  he's  assaulted " 

"A  virtuous  woman — aye,  my  God!  and  the  woman  I 
worship.  If  /  can  look  unflinchingly  on  duty  with  that 
at  my  heart,  surely  you  can." 

"Oh,  Mat,  Mat,"  Dud  was  about  to  say ;  "I  worship  her, 
too !"  but,  he  thought,  "No,  no ;  he  must  never  know."  So 
he  stifled  a  terrible  sob  in  his  bosom,  and,  grasping  his 
friend's  hand  again,  pointed  towards  the  house. 

Enough.  Mat  breathed  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  to  see 
once  more  those  steel  bands  of  friendship  respond  nobly  to 
duty's  strain,  and  while  they  rapidly  neared  the  crowd,  he 
felt  that  with  Dud  at  his  right  hand,  law  and  order  were 
firm  in  the  saddle.  Alas,  he  had  never  encountered  the 
scorching  blast  of  passion's  sirocco  and  little  kenned  its 
fury. 

As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  gate,  a  shout  greeted  them, 
anxious  looks  were  turned  their  way,  and  Mat  could  note 
at  seventy  yards  the  kindling  fire  that  shone  from  every  eye. 

"We  must  be  firm,"  he  whispered  to  Dud. 

"Damn  firm !"  Dud  responded  between  set  teeth,  and  he 
thought  of  Mat's  words:  "If  I  can  face  duty  with  that  at 


224  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

my  heart,  surely  you  can,"  and  murmured,  "So  can  they — 
but  they  won't." 

Betty  came  running  to  meet  them.  She  had  heard  it  by 
now,  and,  laying  her  hand  on  Dud's  shoulder,  she  inquired 
with  blanched  face: 

"Is  she  safer 

"Yes,  perfectly  safe,  don't  be  alarmed." 

'"'Betty,  will  you  saddle  the  horses  while  I  see  the  boys  ?" 
asked  her  brother. 

"Both?" 

"Yes,  somebody  may  need  one." 

She  flew  to  the  lot,  while  the  two  strode  on. 

"What  are  the  facts,  Dud?"  began  everyone,  loudly. 

"Talk  to  'em,  old  feller,"  he  said  quietly  to  Mat. 

The  boys,  by  this  time,  were  piling  into  the  yard,  sur- 
rounding the  two,  and  wildly  impatient  for  something  defi- 
nite. Mat  began,  and  that  majestic  look  caused  a  hush : 

"The  facts  are  that  Pedro  is  suspected  of  an  assault  on 
Miss  Hennon.  I  summon  each  and  every  one  of  you  to 
aid  me  in  his  apprehension." 

A  murmur  of  assent  and  approval  arose,  but  Mat 
instantly  quelled  it  and  continued : 

"And  I  shall  hold  each  and  every  one  of  you  responsible 
for  his  safe  delivery  into  my  charge,  should  you  capture 
him.  All  who  live  near  enough  get  your  horses  and  guns 
and  assemble  as  quick  as  possible  at  the  Court  House.  I 
have  one  extra  horse  f0r  whoever  may  need  him.  Lose  no 
time,  and " 

He  raised  his  voice,  while  those  who  had  turned  to  go 
for  horses  and  guns,  paused : 

"I  charge  you,  in  the  name  of  the  State,  to  commit  no 
violence." 

They  dispersed  rapidly,  silently.  Mat  directed  the  farm- 


THE   STORM    GATHERS. 

ers  who  had  followed  Dud,  to  rest,  and  water  their  horses 
in  the  lot  and  come  in.  He  and  Dud  entered  the  house  and 
closeted  themselves  in  the  kitchen.  When  they  came  forth 
Dud  was  more  collected  than  he  had  been,  and  both  were 
pictures  of  determination. 

Betty  had  Mat's  Sunday  slouch  hat  brushed  and  ready 
in  one  hand,  and  several  loaded  shells  in  the  other. 

"I  don't  guess  four  are  enough,  Bet,  I  didn't  bring  my 
gun,"  Dud  remarked. 

"Oh !  didn't  you  ?  Well,  I'll  get  the  other  and  some  more 
shells." 

"Dud,"  said  Mat,  in  a  hurried  whisper,  while  Betty  was 
absent,  "I  noticed  Andy  on  the  outside  of  the  fence  while 
I  was  talkin'  to  the  boys;  he's  still  drinkin',  and  I  want 
you  to  keep  an  eye  on  him  for  Betty's  sake.  He  and  the 
Ott  outfit  will  try  to  do  something  rash,  and  you  know 
now,  since  Andy  is  mad  with  me,  I'd  have  a  worse  effect 
than  ever  on  him.  So,  Dud,  watch  him — don't  let  him  go 
wrong.  I  don't  reckon  anybody  can  keep  'em  from  drinkin' 
that  infernal  ginger  and  stuff,  but  do  your  best  to  keep 
him  from  harm.  I  hope  he  and  the  Otts  won't  be  the  ones 
to  find  Pedro, — I  saw  trouble  in  their  looks.  I'll  go  over  to 
the  depot  and  telegraph  a  description  of  Pedro  all  along 
the  line,  and  in  the  meantime,  you  ride  down  to  the  Court 
House  and  get  everything  in  shape.  Put  the  boys  in 
squads  and  get  the  dare-devil  element  scattered  as  much 
as  possible." 

Betty  returned,  and  Dud  took  a  shotgun  and  some  shells, 
and,  refreshing  himself  with  a  cool  drink,  left,  taking  the 
farmers  with  him. 

They  put  question  after  question  to  him  on  the  way,  but 
he  was  taciturn.  He  felt  heavy  and  sore  at  heart,  and  torn 
with  the  conflict  of  wrath  and  duty — duty  as  Mat  saw  it, 


226  MATTHEW  DOYLE. 

but  to  him,  he  could  not  help  but  feel  that  duty  called  for 
swift  vengeance.  He  put  the  hot  thought  aside,  though, 
and  resolved  to  see  his  lifelong  friend  through,  thinking, 
as  he  did  so,  "I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  hopeless  job — the  storm 
gathers,  and  when  it  breaks " 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 

JUDGE  LYNCH  AS  A  CONDITION. 

PEDRO,  bareheaded,  peeped  out  from  behind  the  clump  of 
bushes  when  he  saw  the  coast  was  clear,  and,  making  his 
way  hurriedly  to  the  road,  put  his  ear  to  the  ground  and 
listened.  He  heard  the  rumbling  thump  of  galloping  hoofs, 
and  knew  that  Dud  was  off  towards  Pike — on  what  mission 
he  could  easily  guess.  He  remained  crouching  down,  unde- 
cided what  to  do,  baffled  rage  and  cowardly  fear  stamped  in 
every  loathesome  lineament  of  his  face.  Pike  was  some 
three  miles  away  by  the  road;  a  short  cut  through  the 
bottom  would  lessen  it  to  perhaps  two  and  a  half.  But  what 
was  he  to  do  when  he  got  there — if  he  went  ?  Long  before 
he  could  make  it,  not  only  the  village,  but  all  Pike  County, 
would  be  at  his  heels,  and  it  would  be  suicidal  to  run  right 
where  the  danger  was  greatest. 

Yet  avarice  urged  him  there.  The  Deacon  still  had  the 
money — and  at  the  thought  of  how  he  had  supinely  allowed 
Hicks  full  handling  of  the  ill-gotten  stuff,  he  poured  forth 
vile  maledictions,  and  beat  himself  and  kicked  nearby  trees 
in  impotent  frenzy — availing  nothing,  except  to  tear  his 
already  broken  pieces  of  shoes. 

Money  he  needed — money  he  wanted:  wanted  it,  in 
truth,  far  more  than  he  needed  it,  for  he  was  an  adept  at 
stealing  victuals  and  beating  trains.  Trains:  that  word 
brought  speculation  as  to  how  he  would  get  unseen  to  the 
railroad.  The  nearest  point  of  the  tracks  was  a  full  five 

[227] 


228  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

miles,  and,  barring  Pike,  there  was  no  station  nearer  than 
six  or  more  miles,  and  that  one  was  between  Pike  and  the 
city.  He  knew  the  telegraph  wires  would  be  kept  hot  for 
him:  every  bad  negro  he  had  known  (and  their  names  were 
legion)  had  invariably  pulled  for  some  city  when  "wanted," 
and  the  officers,  long  ere  he  reached  a  getting-on  place, 
would  have  a  description  at  the  station.  He  considered  the 
feasibility  of  heading  straight  for  the  nearest  point  of  the 
tracks  and  boarding  a  running  train ;  but  it  was  one  chance 
in  fifty  that  he  would  make  a  safe  catch-on,  and  if  he 
missed  footing — ugh !  he  shuddered.  The  brute  hated  to 
die,  though  he  entertained  not  the  slightest  compunction 
about  killing  a  helpless,  frail  woman.  However,  even  if  he 
failed  to  make  a  catch-on,  but  escaped  unhurt,  he  would 
then  have  wasted  valuable  time,  every  minute  of  which 
meant  treasures  to  him — treasures  how  priceless  none  but 
he  could  appreciate.  That  terrible  cry  of  Dud's  still  rang 
through  his  foul  brain  and  terrorized  him  even  to  the  echo. 
How  much  worse  would  be  the  roar  when  a  hundred  enraged 
men  caught  him.  He  put  his  hands  to  his  face  and  stopped 
his  ears  and  cursed  horrid  blasphemy  in  very  terror. 

Through  it  all;  though,  avarice  kept  digging  at  him  and 
repeating:  "Don't  leave  without  your  share  of  Old  Man 
Dodd's  money;  go,  fly  and  get  it.  Hicks  will  protect  you. 
It's  the  safest  plan  of  all ;  threaten  the  white-livered  hound 
with  exposure  if  he  (Joesn't  divide  up  and  get  you  safely 
away.  He'll  do  it,  curse  him,  he'll  do  it.  Nobody  will  sus- 
pect him  of  harboring  you;  go  to  him  before  the  hypo- 
crite joins  in  the  search." 

Pedro  possessed  sufficient  cunning  to  distinguish  the 
safe  and  risky  sides  alike  of  such  a  bold  move  as  going  to 
Pike,  but  the  memory  of  those  crisp,  new  greenbacks  was 
too  strong  a  magnet  for  him  to  give  due  heed  to  the  danger 


JUDGE  LYNCH   AS  A  CONDITION.  229 

Then,  too,  a  thought  struck  him,  and  he  laughed  in  devilish 
glee  at  its  contemplation.  By  the  time  he  should  have 
arrived  at  the  village  the  men  would  undoubtedly  be  gone 
in  search  of  him;  he  would  go  through  Hicks'  house,  find 
the  box,  and  take  all  the  money;  or,  if  Hicks  was  there, 
he'd  murder  him  and  take  it  still.  At  the  possibility 
of  murder  the  beast  arose  within  him,  and  the  distortion  of 
his  vice-marked  countenance  was  demoniacal.  Baffled,  foiled 
in  his  recent  hellish  attempt,  he  would  make  amends  by 
committing  one  as  near  to  it  as  possible.  He  knew  what 
awaited  him  in  any  event,  if  caught,  and  so,  finally,  he  set 
out  stealthily  through  the  woods  for  town,  muttering: 

"Hung  for  a  sheep  ez  well  ez  a  lamb,  an'  if  I  gits  clear, 
Gawd  Amighty !  de  plunks  dis  coon'll  have  1" 

No  repentance,  no  remorse  was  in  Pedro's  breast.  Gods ! 
Prate  of  penitence  finding  lodgment  in  such  a  sink  of  foul- 
ness! Ye  who  rant  about  the  tearful  supplications,  the 
heart-breaking  lamentations  of  the  rapist  at  bay,  watch 
him  slink  away  from  the  scene  so  lately  startled  by  his 
victim's  shriek — remember  how  he  grasped,  with  ferocious 
cruelty,  that  slender  form  and  choked  that  fair  throat, — 
hear  the  brutal  thud  of  his  filthy  fist  as  it  struck  her 
upturned  face,  call  back  to  mind  his  worse  than  devilish 
grin  of  triumph  before  Dud  dashed  thundering  down, 
and  then  put  the  hyena  in  the  whitewashed  niche  of  cant 
you've  set  up  for  such  sable  martyrs.  Come  down  from  the 
City  of  Beans  and  Bosh  with  your  eyeglasses,  your  peti- 
tions, your  whereases,  your  philippics,  and  your  general 
tomfoolery,  and  see  the  arch-fiend  of  lust  before  the  storm- 
cloud  of  vengeance  comes  to  make  dastardly  fright  seem 
saintly  repentance,  martyred  innocence  in  your  eyes ;  come 
down !  come  down !  and  if  you  find  one  spark  of  remorse  or 


MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

regret  in  his  venomed  heart  for  the  crime  he  has  plotted, 
then  I'll  forswear  my  people  and  join  the  A.  P.  A. 

Pedro's  only  thought  during  his  cautious  approach  to 
Pike,  was  the  money,  and,  if  Hicks  was  there,  the  murder. 
Oh,  he  would  even  forego  the  ecstatic  recollection  of  the 
sehoolmarm's  scream,  to  kill  the  Deacon.  The  Deacon 
had  tricked  him,  had  been  promising  to  give  him  his  share, 
and  had  lied  like  a  cur;  lied  to  him,  who  had  stolen  the 
money  for  the  Deacon;  lied  to  him,  who,  by  rights,  was 
entitled  to  more  than  half — yes,  three-fourths ;  yes — all  of 
the  spoils.  And  he'd  have  them,  too!  He  clenched  his 
great,  ugly  fists;  oh,  he'd  square  accounts  with  that  sore- 
eyed  psalm-singer,  and  receipt  the  bill  with  his  rascally 
blood.  He  grew  wild  with  exultation  at  the  idea,  and  pushed 
on  with  trebled  speed.  If  he  could  only  make  it  and  finger 
those  crisp,  new  greenbacks,  he'd  snap  his  fingers  at  Pike, 
and  leave — sorry  for  one  thing  only,  and  that  was  the 
failure  of  his  attempt  to  do  worse  than  murder. 

The  afternoon  was  wearing  on  apace  when  he  caught 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  weather-vane  on  Pike's  Court 
House.  Wrapt  in  designs  of  murder,  he  had  covered  dis- 
tance so  fast  that  the  sudden  realization  of  his  proximity 
to  the  village  made  him  halt  tremblingly  and  drop  to  the 
ground.  After  the  jumping  of  his  heart  ceased  some- 
what, he  peered  over  the  weeds  and  listened  intently. 
Everything  was  quiet,  save  now  and  then  the  noisy  jerk 
of  a  cow-bell,  or  the  yelp  of  some  mongrel  dog.  He  had 
expected  to  hear  some  sort  of  signs  of  excitement,  but  the 
little  hamlet  appeared  to  be  dozing  serenely  as  was  its  May- 
day wont.  He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  crept  on.  There 
was  a  considerable  rise  just  back  of  town,  which  the  fore- 
fathers of  Pike  had  somehow  got  into  their  heads  was  a 
mountain,  and  from  time  immemorial  it  had  been  thus 


JUDGE   LYNCH   AS  A  CONDITION.  231 

dubbed.  Its  apex  would  scarce  permit  a  person  to  see  over 
an  ordinarily  tall  city  building,  but  still  it  was  high  enough 
to  command  a  fairly  good  view  of  the  square  about  the 
court  yard.  Pedro  considered  the  advisability  of  recon- 
noitering  from  the  "Mountain"  (capital  M,  if  you  please) 
before  venturing  in,  but  the  '^Mountain"  was  a  full  quarter 
from  him,  and  as  the  Deacon's  house  was  on  the  side  of  the 
village  nearest  to  him,  it  seemed  a  waste  of  those  treasured 
minutes  to  make  the  detour;  added  to  that,  once  safely 
inside  the  Deacon's  and  the  job  done,  dusk  would  soon  come 
to  give  him  cover — a  South-bo\ind  freight  was  due  to  pass 
just  after  nightfall,  and  he  could  easily  make  the  sprint 
from  Hicks  to  the  tracks  and  swing  on — -it  always  slowed 
down  in  passing,  as  a  heavy  up  grade  began  there.  Those 
calculations  looked  promising,  so  he  discarded  the  "Moun- 
tain" plan  and  advanced  straight  for  the  ill-fated  Deacon's. 

Little  he  recked  what  sight  would  have  been  unfolded 
had  he  looked  before  he  leaped. 

He  would  have  seen  a  gathering  of  mounted  men,  armed 
and  silent,  he  would  have  seen  the  square-built  form  of 
Dud  parceling  them  into  squads :  he  would  have  seen  little 
dust  clouds  along  the  road,  that  betokened  scouts,  and  he 
would  have  seen  a  horseman  ride  out  from  the  depot  side, 
who,  did  he  but  know  it,  would  have  been  his  protector,  and 
well-nigh  his  only  protector. 


Hicks  mill  had  closed  down  when  the  news  of  Pedro's 
crime  became  general.  Hicks  would  have  liked  to  see  the 
entire  State  turn  out  to  hunt  the  negro.  He  looked  on  it 
as  the  luckiest  thing  in  the  world  that  could  have  hap- 
pened, and  at  a  time,  too,  when  he  was  becoming  vastly 


232  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

worried  over  Pedro  and  how  to  get  rid  of  him.  Keally  it 
was  quite  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence,  to  quote 
from  his  Sabbath-school  talks. 

Pedro  had  been  the  stumbling  block  in  his  way  ever 
since  the  robbery.  He  had  misjudged  Pedro's  docility.  It 
had  required  all  his  blandishments,  and  more  besides,  to 
keep  the  darkey  quieted  and  satisfied  to  wait  for  a  division, 
and  the  good  Deacon  had  been  in  mortal  fear  day  and 
night,  lest  Pedro,  in  some  drunken  spell,  should  give  the 
whole  thing  to  the  world.  Oh,  that  terrible  demon  Rum ! 
Why  would  Pedro  drink  and  jeopardize  his  own  and  the 
Deacon's  safety? 

Well,  indeed,  might  Hicks  rub  his  hands  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  his  "deadfall"  after  one  of  the  boys  had  brought  him 
the  welcome  information.  Well,  indeed,  might  he  grin 
and  show  his  rat-like  teeth,  or  at  least  what  was  left  of  their 
rotting  stumps.  Well,  indeed,  might  he  pat  the  iron  door 
of  his  safe  and  think  of  the  nice,  new,  crisp  greenbacks 
therein,  and  how  soon  they  would  all  be  his — his  alone,  not 
one  of  them  Pedro's. 

Well,  indeed,  might  he  send  an  order  to  the  foreman  to 
shut  down  and  report  all  hands  to  Sheriff  Doyle.  Bah ! — 
Sheriff  Doyle — the  name  stuck  on  his  meditations  like  a 
knot  in  a  pine  log.  Sheriff  Doyle,  his  partner  and  his  "apt 
pupil,"  would  exert  every  effort  to  find  the  negro,  and  save 
him,  worse  luck.  Sheriff  Doyle  stood  for  law  and  order, 
and  the  Deacon  knew  Sheriff  Doyle  well  enough  to  know 
that  when  he  stood  for  a  thing,  he  stood  and  didn't  sit,  or 
lie  down,  or  straddle.  None  so  competent  to  distinguish 
real  sincerity  as  the  hypocrite.  Plague  take  Sheriff  Doyle ! 
If  he  hadn't  been  a  Deacon  he'd  have  cursed  Sheriff  Doyle 
• — indeed  he  would,  sir ! 

Little  beady,  dirty  drops  of  sweat  oozed  out  of  his  "strip 


JUDGE   LYNCH    AS   A   CONDITION.  233 

o'  mouldin',"  as  he  realized  what  would  follow  if  Pedro  was 
caught  and  confessed  all.  In  the  first  fright  of  thinking  it 
over  he  took  a  step  towards  the  safe,  half  resolved  to  take 
those  nice,  crisp,  new  greenbacks  and  what  money  the  firm 
had,  and  leave.  Second  thoughts  decided  him  otherwise. 

He  heard  the  yell  of  the  hands  when  the  foreman  an- 
nounced the  news.  That  yell  came  from  stout  throats 
backed  by  stout  hearts  and  stouter  arms.  That  yell  came 
from  boys  who  had  mothers,  wives  and  sisters  at  home,  and 
who  worshipped  the  virtue  of  their  women  as  sacredly  as 
your  plug-hat  gentry.  That  yell  came  from  boys  whose 
blood  by  nature  flowed  hot,  and  when  kindled  with  the 
torch  of  vengeance,  boiled  worse  than  the  volcanoe's  lava. 
Ah,  ha  !  that  yell  brought  a  saintly  smile  to  the  holy  Deacon 
as  he  pictured  its  meaning — so,  he  shoved  those  nice,  new, 
crisp  greenbacks  in  the  safe  again,  and  taking  his  Bible, 
locked  up  the  "deadfall"  and  went  in  quest  of  Sheriff  Doyle. 
He  hoped  they  would  catch  Pedro  and  shoot  him  down  be- 
fore any  tales  could  be  told;  but  that  was  a  risky  hope. 
Pedro  would  grasp  at  any  straw  for  life  and  try  to  turn  the 
tide  towards  the  Deacon,  so  he  had  to  content  himself  with 
the  next  best  hope  that  the  negro  would  escape.  Then  it 
was  the  Deacon  saw  that  this  special  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence contained  a  flaw.  Why  didn't  Pedro  wait  a  fort- 
night, or  say,  three  weeks?  By  that  time  Hicks  could 
have  gotten  as  much  as  it  was  safe  to  get  out  of  the  mill 
before  the  exposure,  and  have  left  Pike  and  Pedro  to  have 
it  out  between  them.  Too  bad,  aye,  much  too  bad,  quoth 
he,  and  prayed  they  would  lynch  the  rascal  for  being  so 
hasty  with  his  rapings — it  was  bound  to  result  in  a  loss  of 
several  hundred  dollars  to  the  Deacon,  the  good  Deacon, 
the  devout  Deacon.  As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  crowd  he 
screwed  his  nutmeg  face  into  as  piously  horrified  an  ex- 


234  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

pression  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine  such  a  face  capable  of, 
and  forcing  his  way  through  the  groups,  he  clutched  Mat's 
hand  and  shook  it  spasmodically : 

"Shocking,  Sheriff,  shocking !  Xever — all  my  life  have 
— felt  so  shocked  over — thing  as — felt  over  this.  Any  aid 
in — power,  Sheriff,  to  help  see — law — " 

"Yes,  yes/'  interrupted  Mat,  kindly  but  hastily,  "we 
thank  you  for  sending  the  mill  hands,  Deacon,  but  we  must 
move  quick — time  has  been  lost  already;  Dud,"  raising  his 
voice,  "have  you  a  place  in  one  of  the  squads  for  Deacon 
Hicks  r 

"Is  he  armed?" 

"No,"  piped  the  Deacon,  "I'll  run  to — house  and  get — 
pistol — don't  wait — overtake  you  all." 

He  made  his  way  through  the  groups  again  and  pelted 
up  the  street  towards  the  parsonage — heartily  glad  to  get 
away  and  determined  to  take  plenty  of  time  finding  that 
pistol.  He  pretended  not  to  hear  a  lad  calling  after  him, 
"Hi.  Deecon!  hi,  Deecon  Hicks!  hi,  there;  Mister  Mat 
says  take  his  spare  horse." 

Housewives  who  saw  his  ungainly  bow  legs  pattering  up 
the  sidewalk,  had  to  hold  their  sides  for  laughing,  and  then 
wonder  how  "the  Deecon  could  run  with  them  legs  an'  not 
trip  himself  up." 

Arrived  at  the  parsonage,  he  bolted  breathlessly  in  the 
door,  up  the  steps,  into  his  room,  and  landed  plump  in 
Pedro's  arms. 

"Jee-suss!"  said  the  Deacon. 

Pedro  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  volumes — whole  libra- 
ries. 

"Uh— uh— uh — uh — ,  howdy,  Pe — Pe — Pedro — "  began 
the  good  man. 

"I  want  that  money !"  replied  the  bad  man. 


JUDGE  LYNCH   AS  A  CONDITION.  235 

"Uh — uh — uh — uh — Pe — Pedro,  that  money — " 

"]S[o  palavering  you  lyin'  houn' — git  the  money!" 

"Pe — Pedro,  uh — don't  choke — so  hard,  uh — uh — that 
money — uh — that  money  ain't  in  the  house." 

"You  lie !" 

"Indeed,  uh — uh — indeed  it  isn't,  Pe — Pedro,  lemme 
chow  you,  Pe — Pedro,  leave  go — uh — uh — please  do,  Pe — 
Pedro,  and — show  you  everything — uh — indeed  it  isn't 
here." 

"Damn  you,  you  lie !  You  said  you'd  keep  it  heah,  an' 
you've  told  me  since  then  it's  heah." 

"Honest,  Pe — Pe — Pedro,  it  was  here — uh — uh !  Don't 
choke  me  so  hard,  Pee — dro !  I  love  you,  Pe — Pedro,  in- 
deed I  do — I'll  give  you — uh — uh!  Great  God!  Pee — 
dro!  don't— don't,  uh-h-h-h!" 

Thud,  thud,  thud,  thud  rained  the  blows,  and  the  bloody, 
soggy  mass  of  flesh  dropped  in  a  miserable  heap  on  the 
floor. 


"Mat,"  called  Dud,  "if  you're  ready  I'll  just  let  the 
squad  I  put  Hicks  in  go  by  the  parsonage  for  him — it's  on 
their  way." 

"Very  well,  Dud.     Eeady,  boys?" 

"Ready !"  they  sang  out. 

"Be  off,  then,  and  remember — whoever  gets  news  of  him, 
Bend  word  back  along  the  line,  and  if  he's  caught  no  vio- 
lence." 

They  separated  silently. 

The  squad  to  which  Hicks  had  been  assigned  was  off  up 
the  street  and  at  the  parsonage  before  the  others  had  got 
outside  of  the  town  limits. 


236  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

"Hello  there,  Deacon !"  called  the  leader,  "we's  a-waitin' 
on  you;  come  on! — H — 1  fire,  boys,  there  comes  Pedro 
down  the  steps — Shoot !" 

Bang!  bang!  bang!  blazed  half  a  dozen  shotguns,  and 
the  loud  reports  caused  all  the  other  squads  to  stop. 

Pedro  dashed  down  the  staircase,  out  the  back  way,  over 
the  fence,  and  was  off  like  a  flash — and  so  were  his  pur- 
suers. 

Bang !  bang !  roared  the  shotguns.  Crack !  crack !  went 
the  Winchesters,  and  in  a  minute's  time  the  entire  posse 
were  charging  through  the  woods,  split  in  all  directions 
and  firing  at  every  jump.  One  horseman — cool-headed — 
held  his  fire,  and  circled  to  one  side  of  the  fleeing  negro, 
and  then  closed  in  in  front  of  him.  Another  and  another 
saw  the  move  and  did  likewise,  and  soon  the  race  had 
turned  back  to  Pike. 

"Don't  shoot !"  yelled  Dud,  "you  might  hit  the  women !" 

First  one  and  then  another  gun  became  silent,  and  when, 
at  last,  Pedro  flew  down  the  main  thoroughfare,  the  clatter 
of  many  hoofs  was  the  only  noise  he  heard. 

On — on  he  tore,  and  as  he  neared  the  tracks  he  noticed 
the  depot  was  empty  and  the  freight  room  door  open.  He 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  the  string  of  horsemen 
bearing  down  upon  him,  and  even  as  he  looked,  crack ! 
went  a  rifle — Andy  Dodd,  drunk  and  wild  with  excitement 
had  disregarded  Dud's  command.  But  the  shot  deter- 
mined Pedro.  He  veered^his  course  and  sailed  on  into  the 
freight  room,  and  rolled  the  heavy  door  to.  He  felt  around 
the  wall  until  he  touched  a  shelf,  hoping  to  find  a  nail,  but 
none  was  there,  and  he  jumped  back  just  in  time  to  throw 
his  weight  against  the  door. 

Outside  the  din  was  cyclonic. 

Mat's  orders  and  Dud's  cautionings  were  forgotten.     Not 


JUDGE  LYNCH  AS  A  CONDITION,  237 

merely  the  dare-devil  element,  nor  the  Ott  outfit,  but  ordi- 
narily cool  heads  were  swept  along  in  the  whirlwind. 
Squads  were  broken,  Dud's  attempt  at  a  methodical  and  safe 
disposition  of  the  force  went  to  naught.  Men  slid  or  rolled 
down  from  their  horses,  and  crowded,  shouting,  yelling, 
around  the  door;  but  there  was  nothing  on  the  outside  but 
a  staple  catch  to  pull  by,  and  only  one  at  a  time  could  get 
a  grip  on  that,  so  the  door  remained  hard  and  fast. 

"Batter  it  down !"  cried  some. 

"Let's  shoot  through  it !"  yelled  others,  suiting  action  to 
word. 

"Burn  the  d — d  depot !"  roared  the  rest. 

One  after  another  tugged  at  the  staple-catch.  Oaths, 
shots,  and  yells  rent  the  air,  but  the  door  yielded  not. 

Suddenly  a  lull  fell  on  the  mass ;  why,  no  man  knew,  un- 
less it  was  that  nature  was  forced  to  take  a  breathing  spell. 
Every  breast  heaved  with  panting,  and  as  they  looked  from 
one  to  another,  undecided  what  to  do,  the  ponderous  door 
creaked,  rolled  slowly  back  a  foot  or  two,  and  Mat  stood  in 
the  opening.  At  the  back  of  the  freight  room  was  a  door 
also — locked — and  Mat  had  overtaken  the  station  master 
(who  had  ran  out  and  joined  in  the  chase),  and  secured  the 
keys  from  him. 

The  lull  in  the  storm  lasted  scarce  a  second,  when  he  ap- 
peared before  the  crowd,  and  they  drew  back  at  sight  of 
him — amazed — awed. 

"Talk  to  'em,  Mat,"  quietly  said  Dud,  who  was  in  the 
freight  room  with  his  friend,  guarding  the  rear  door. 

But  Mat  stood  silent  for  the  present.  His  hat  was  gone, 
his  hair  disheveled,  his  face  wet  with  perspiration,  his  jaws 
set,  his  eyes  shining  with  that  majestic  light  of  undaunted 
determination. 


238  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

In  this  world  of  knaves  and  charlatans  what  a  sight  is  it 
to  behold  a  man  of  duty!  And  how  sublime  that  sight 
when  we  see  him  firm  as  Gibraltar  before  the  waves  of 
anarchy !  It  may  be  written  on  the  tablets  of  Eternal  Jus- 
tice that  lawlessness  must,  like  the  Nile,  overflow  reason's 
bank  and  in  the  hot  tide  of  passion,  commit  a  crime  to  kill 
a  criminal. — I  say  it  may  be — I  am  no  oracle — but  if  it  is, 
and  the  turbid  torrent  must  run  its  course,  I  thank  God 
that  Mat  Doyle  stopped  not  his  ears  to  the  roaring  waters, 
nor  hid  his  head  from  the  crashing  breakers.  Aye,  aye,  I 
thank  God  he  stood  in  the  gleam  and  glitter  of  a  hundred 
gun-barrels  and  defiled  not  the  badge  he  wore,  but  kept  his 
oath. 

If  we  would  pay  less  heed  to  free  silver  and  free  what- 
not, high  tariff  and  high  what-not,  anti-expansion  and  anti- 
what-not  ; — if  we  would  get  together  as  a  people  and  not  a 
party,  and  kick  the  cussedness  out  of  political  platform 
pirates,  and  then  turn  our  free  and  unlimited  attention  to 
electing  men  of  duty,  without  waiting  for  the  aid  or  con- 
sent of  any  set  of  blockheads  on  earth,  such  a  character  as 
Mat  Doyle,  Sheriff  of  Pike  County,  State  of  Judge  Lynch, 
would  not  stand  out  as  an  isolated  exotic  of  an  extinct  vir- 
tue. 

Nay,  more ;  if  we  did  this,  then  those  men  of  duty  would 
see  to  it  that  a  lynching  would  no  longer  be  catalogued  as 
an  atom  under  the  head  of  Premature  Hemp  Parties. 

But,  alas  !  •  alas ! — "woe  is  me"  saith  some  old  Biblical 
fellow,  and  "me  too,"  saith  I;  they  will  declare  I  cherish 
not  my  mother's  virtue,  because  I  fain  would  see  my  father's 
soil  unsullied  by  the  mob. 

At  last  Mat  spoke ;  clearly,  calmly,  resolutely. 

"Boys,  Pedro  is  handcuffed  inside  here,  and  Dud  Tre- 


JUDGE  LYNCH  AS  A  CONDITION.  239 

nome  and  I  will  wait  here  for  the  midnight  train  and  take 
him—" 

"Bring  him  out !  Turn  him  over  to  us !  He  shan't  be 
taken  away !"  broke  in  the  crowd,  surging  around  the  Sher- 
iff and  growing  as  wild  as  before. 

"Kill  him  like  a  dog !  Shoot  him !  Lynch  him !"  they 
chorussed. 

Ah,  "Lynch  him!"  The  murder  was  out.  "Lynch 
him !"  The  tidal  wave  gave  the  first  real  sign  of  its  com- 
ing. "Lynch  him !"  The  tiger  scenteth  the  blood  and 
giveth  his  boding  snarl. 

But  the  Sheriff  moved  never  an  inch. 

"Silence,  men !"  he  thundered.  "Back — down  with  your 
weapons — if  you  murder  him,  you  must  assassinate  me." 

"Stand  aside,  Mat,"  they  answered;  "we'll  have  him — 
stand  aside !" 

But  the  Sheriff  brought  his  hand  up  and  covered  the  mob 
with  his  gun. 

"I'm  done  talking — you'll  hear  from  this  next ;  disperse ! 
I  command  you  in  the  name  of  the  State  of — " 

Crack  !  rang  out  a  Winchester,  and  Andy's  voice  screamed 
in  maniacal  frenzy : 

"Charge,  boys,  I've  done  the  work !" 

The  gun  fell  from  the  Sheriff's  hands,  his  jaws  relaxed, 
he  stretched  out  his  arms  convulsively  and  tottered.  Law 
— order — life — liberty,  all  were  swirling  in  the  red  eddy 
of  riot. 

The  shackled  negro  made  one  mad  dash  over  his  pro- 
tector's prostrate  form,  just  barely  eluding  Dud,  who  fol- 
lowed behind. 

Then  did  lawlessness  hold  high  carnival.  Then  did  oaths 
blacken  the  God-given  air.  Then  did  shrieks  blanche 


24O  •    MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

Mercy's  face.  Then  did  the  brute  pay  the  inevitable  pen- 
alty, as  his  riddled  carcass  swung  slowly  up,  and  hung  like 
a  pall  over  reason's  Waterloo. 

And  the  man  of  duty  lay  stark  and  cold,  a  sacrifice  to 
such  an  orgy. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  HARVEST. 

"As  ye  sow,  so  shall  ye  reap"  is  pretty  generally  held  to 
be  a  self-evident  truth  —  barring,  of  course,  floods  and 
droughts — and  I  think  the  party  who  originally  penned 
those  lines  might  have  added  with  equal  accurateness,  "so 
shall  others  reap." 

If  man,  as  an  individual,  sows  industry,  perseverance, 
sobriety  and  all  the  other  graduating  day,  valedictory  vir- 
tues, his  last  will  and  testament,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  will 
contain  substantial  reapings  for  its  beneficiaries, — to  say 
nothing  of  those  goods  and  chattels  in  the  shape  of  harps 
and  crowns  that  shall  have  become  eternally  vested  in  the 
deceased. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  that  same  man  soweth  revelry, 
waste,  wantonness,  ballet  dancers,  Manhattan  cocktails  and 
race  tickets,  his  last  will  and  testament  will  resemble  a 
simple  calculation  in  mathematics  where  you  substract  two 
from  two — not  to  mention  the  exceedingly  torrid  region 
that  shall  have  become  the  deceased's  eternal  summer  re- 
sort. 

Again,  if  men  in  their  gregarious  capacity,  sow  liberty, 
enlightenment,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  the  lambs  of 
the  flock  will  be  able  to  sport  in  serene  security. 

Whereas,  if  those  same  men  prefer  to  sow  prodigality  and 
call  it  economy,  bosses  and  call  them  public  servants,  sine- 
cures and  call  them  public  trusts,  anarchy  and  call  it  law, 

[241] 


242  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

then  the  entire  flock,  lambs  and  all,  will  eventually  get  very 
sparse  cropping,  and  get  it  on  a  tooth  and  claw  basis  at 
that.  The  condition  of  affairs  in  such  an  event  would  be, 
to  borrow  the  unrivalled  phraseology  of  William  Ott,  Esq., 
"every  son  of  a  gun  for  hisself  and  old  Horntail  astride 
the  hindmost/' 

From  the  foregoing,  it  would  appear  that  there  is  no 
cause  for  alarm,  for  doth  not  our  bill  of  rights  guarantee 
us  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing?  Yea,  verily — but  it  guarantees  them  on  condi- 
tion that  we  preserve  the  one,  pursue  the  other,  and  main- 
tain decent  and  orderly  regard  for  all  those  kind  of  things. 
If  a  farmer  lays  out  a  rich  piece  of  ground  for  his  sons  and 
plants  therein  the  choicest  seeds,  and  then  says :  "Xow,  sons, 
I've  given  you  a  fine  lay — take  the  plow  and  mules  and  go 
up  against  it,"  why,  so  far  so  good — excellent.  But  if  the 
boys  let  the  plow  rust,  never  go  between  the  furrows,  and 
spend  their  time  and  patrimony  playing  old  Harry  and  old 
everybody  else,  when  harvest  comes  their  squandered  time 
will  be  worth  a  thousand  per  cent,  on  the  mill,  and  their 
patrimony  wouldn't  pass  currency  for  a  sight  draft  on  a 
streak  of  lightning. 

Use  brightens,  non-use  corrodes,  mis-use  injures,  abuse 
destroys.  What  happens  when  the  three  latter  are  all  jum- 
bled together?  Chaos.  Every  little  scratch  on  the  shield 
is  just  that  much  abuse,  The  one  scratch  is,  of  itself,  in- 
significant, but  it  tends  to  make  us  careless  about  the  next 
scratch. 

Take  a  young  married  couple,  for  instance.  They  re- 
ceive, say,  a  handsome  set  of  silver  articles  for  the  table — 
pepper  and  salt  boxes,  syrup  jar,  tea-pot,  in  short,  some- 
thing "bang  up."  It  is  so  lovely  of  gran'pa  to  send  them  ! 
They  are  entirely  too  nice  to  use !  They  deserve  a  special 


THE  HARVEST.  243 

place  on  the  sideboard!  They  mustn't  be  touched!  But 
after  awhile  ma  gives  the  pepper-box  to  baby  to  keep  him 
quiet — pa  does  likewise  with  the  syrup  jar,  and  finally  when 
gran'pa  drives  over  of  a  Sunday,  there  is  hurrying  and 
scurrying  to  hide  those  old  battered,  mashed,  broken,  use- 
less presents,  so  as  not  to  hurt  gran'pa's  feelings.  Fine 
respect  for  granpa's  feelings  at  that  late  stage  of  the  game ! 
But  how  is  it  about  Gran'pa  Republic?  Away  back  yon- 
der, Brother  Jonathan  and  Columbia  plighted  their  troth, 
and  Liberty  sealed  the  vow.  The  wedding  day  came 
'round,  and  amongst  all  the  presents,  lo !  there  was  a  price- 
less Parchment — the  gift  of  Gran'pa  Republic.  Now 
Gran'pa  Republic  had  feelings  and  common  sense  with 
them,  too,  and  he  didn't  believe  in  being  silent  about  his 
feelings  until  Jonathan  and  Columbia  should  have  given 
some  bad  baby  that  Parchment  to  keep  him  quiet,  and  that 
bad  baby  should  have  torn  it  up,  just  like  bad  babies 
always  do. 

So,  while  they  stood  at  the  chancel  rail,  with  handsome 
Washington  as  best  man,  and  all  the  other  fine  lads,  who 
had  helped  them  through  the  stormy  courtship,  surround- 
ing them,  Gran'pa  Republic  kissed  the  bonny  bride  and 
patted  Brother  Jonathan's  stalwart  form,  and  said : 

"My  children,  the  pessimist  saith  that  marriage  is  a  fail- 
ure, but  ye  have  this  day  given  the  lie  to  such  growling 
stuff.  Ye  have  formed  a  Union  of  Liberty  before  Destiny's 
altar,  and  ye  shall  sweep  proudly  'down  the  long  drawn 
aisle'  of  Time,  a  lesson  to  the  old  folks,  a  lesson  to  your, 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  a  lesson  to  nations  yet  to  be;  ye 
shall  increase  even  as  the  sands  of  the  seashore,  and  the 
oppressed  and  scourged  shall  flee  to  you ;  ye  shall  go  on  and 
on  with  the  rays  from  Destiny's  altar  ever  lighting  your 
path,  and  ye  shall  lay  your  heads  at  last  in  Eternity's  lap, 


244  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

not  as  a  Nation  that  perished,  but  as  one  that  was  trans- 
lated. Ye  shall  do  these  things,  my  children,  if  (and 
Gran'pa  Republic  laid  mighty  stress  on  that  if,  while  the 
handsome  best  man  said  'Amen/  and  the  gallant  boys  of 
'76  clasped  hands)  -if,  firstly,  ye  pursue  your  way  as  one. 
Hearken  never  to  hate,  for  hate  will  tear  you  apart,  and 
heed  never  the  wheed  lings  of  other  people  who  envy  your 
marital  bliss.  Preserve  the  Union  ye  have  this  day  cove- 
nanted and  the  bed-rock  is  firmly  laid  for  the  Parchment 
I  now  present  you." 

Lo !  he  held  a  scroll  in  his  hands  and  thereon  was  writ- 
ten "CONSTITUTION,"  and  a  great  light  shone  about  it, 
and  high  above  Destiny's  altar  there  appeared  an  emblem  of 
floating  folds  with  the  white  between  the  red,  and  thirteen 
stars  blazing  and  beaming  in  an  azure  sky,  and  down  from 
the  dome  came  the  peal  of  an  organ  and  the  chant  of  an 
angel  choir,  and  the  gallant  boys  of  '76,  and  the  handsome 
best  man,  and  Brother  Jonathan,  and  Columbia,  and 
Gran'pa  Republic  swelled  the  grand  anthem  of  "Sweet 
Land  of  Liberty;"  and  when  the  last  note  died  on  echo's 
breast,  Gran'pa  Republic  handed  the  Parchment  to  Brother 
Jonathan,  and  continued: 

"Take  it,  my  children,  and  listen,  for  I  come  to  my  sec- 
ondly and  lastly. 

"I  said  all  those  blessings  would  come  to  pass  if,  firstly, 
you  maintained  this  Union,  and  I  now  add,  secondly,  if  you 
keep  inviolate  this  Parchment.  Reverence  it,  not  as  some- 
thing to  be  set  up  on  a  golden  salver  and  never  used,  but 
as  your  guide,  your  rudder,  your  chart ;  and  so  reverencing 
it,  defend  its  every  line  against  all  the  world,  and  use  it 
equitably  amongst  your  children.  Teach  them  its  true 
meaning,  the  blessings  it  carries  for  its  preservation,  the 
misery  for  its  destruction.  Teach  them  that  one  part  is  as 


THE   HARVEST.  245 

sacred  as  another,  and  that  it  is  all  for  all.  Teach  them 
that  it  guarantees  life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness 
to  all  and  not  ninety-nine,  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  all. 
Teach  them  that  it  rewards  merit,  and  chastises  the 
offender,  and  teach  them  that  all  offenses  must  and  shall  be 
punished  by  the  law  and  the  law  alone.  For,  even  as  crime 
begets  lawlessness,  so  doth  lawlessness  beget  crime,  and 
therefore,  I  beseech  ye,  prevent  crime  by  virtue  and  law- 
lessness by  justice.  Take  it,  my  children,  and  may  the 
God  of  the  Universe  bless  ye  and  yours  so  long  as  ye  and 
yours  keep  holy  this  Parchment." 

Then  the  happy  bride  and  groom  turned  and  went  forth 
into  the  daylight,  and  the  gallant  boys  of  '76  carried  the 
handsome  best  man  out  on  their  shoulders,  and  there  was 
great  rejoicing  and  exceedingly  much  applejack,  so  much 
that  the  big  old  bell  in  the  steeple  cracked  his  sides  for 
laughing  and  crying,  and  Gran'pa  Eepublic  admitted  for 
once  in  his  life,  that  he  hadn't  seen  any  such  times  as  those 
when  he  was  a  boy.  Those  were  great  times,  but,  ah,  me, 
are  they  on  the  wane  or  not  ?  Sometimes  I  think  they  are 
not ;  sometimes  I  could  swear  they  are. 

When  I  hear  a  newly  inaugurated  President  spout  tor- 
rents of  pyrotechnical  poppycock  about  what  a  great  people 
we  are  and  how  well  we  are  doing  (because  we  elected 
him),  I  think,  "Oh,  pshaw!  nothing's  wrong — I'm  just  a 
calamity  howler,  that's  all." 

But  again,  when  I  see  an  absolutely  true  and  admitted 
account  of  a  coroner's  jury  on  the  case  of  a  lynched  "sus- 
pect," reading  this  wise :  "We,  etc.,  find  that  deceased  came 
to  his  death  by  venturing  too  far  out  on  the  limb  of  a  tree 
and  falling  off,  thereby  breaking  his  neck,"  I  could  almost 
swear  I  heard  Gran'pa  Eepublic  saying,  "Take  'em,  Chaos, 
and  go  to  the  Devil  with  'em."  Great  Heaven!  Talk 


246  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

< 

about  civilizing  the  Filipinos !  We'd  better  unsavage  the 
civilized  first. 

That's  right;  turn  over  the  pages  and  see  if  you  ain't 
'most  through  this  blamed  book.  Say  I'm  not  only  a  pessi- 
mist and  a  full-fledged  fool,  but  a  negro  lover  in  the  bar- 
gain. Say  I'm  some  old,  disappointed  office-seeker  taking 
a  cowardly  way  of  unloading  my  spleen ;  and  you'll  be  dead 
wrong,  Brother  Bigot,  of  "South  Carolina,  sah !"  and  Sis- 
ter Intolerance,  of  "Bawsteown,  Massachusetts,  sir-r! 
Neow  England,  sir-r !" 

I  am  not  old,  nor  am  I  an  office-seeker,  disappointed  or 
otherwise ;  never  ran  but  for  one  in  my  life  and  got  that. 

Does  it  perforce  take  pessimists  and  old  folks,  whom  hope 
has  left  nothing  to  garner,  to  read  the  signs  of  the  times  ? 
Xay,  nay,  Brother  Bigot  and  Sister  Intolerance.  Nay, 
nay,  my  sweet-scented  pair !  Take  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  and  the  current  issue  of  any  reliable  journal 
(thank  God,  we  have  a  few),  for  any  year  in  the  past 
decade,  read  them  both,  clip  the  lynching  items,  not  for 
rape  alone,  but  for  everything  from  that  to  "mistaken  iden- 
tity," and  then,  if  you  can  say  that  even  ninety-nine, 
ninety-nine  hundredths  of  our  executions  have  been  legal, 
I'll  found  an  imbecile  asylum  and  be  the  first  patient,  and 
move  to  elect  you  Dean. 

Don't  recriminate,  Brother  Bigot,  and  say,  "Well,  by 
thunder !  the  Yankee  did  wrong  in  giving  the  negro  equal 
suffrage  right  at  the  staTt."  He  knows  he  did  wrong,  and 
if  he's  an  honest  Yankee,  he'll  admit  it  and  rectify  it ;  but 
he  won't  if  you  recriminate.  He'll  throw  up  the  job  and, 
what's  worse  still,  turn  it  over  to  Sister  Intolerance.  Then 
Daddy  Horntail  will  be  to  pay.  The  Washington  Post 
once  said,  "Recrimination  is  confession  by  retort,"  and  of 
all  the  good  things  in  which  the  editorials  of  that  paper 


THE   HARVEST.  247 

abounded,  that  was  the  best.  If  you  go  to  recriminating, 
why  you  lay  the  foundation  for  a  civil  war  besides  which 
the  series  of  events  between  Biill  Run  and  Appomattox  will 
seem  as  a  chess  tournament. 

And  you,  Sister  Intolerance,  don't  imagine  that,  because 
you  look  at  the  negro  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope, 
you  are  entitled  to  a  diploma  in  ethnology. 

Astronomists  have  been  wearing  their  patient  eyes  out 
through  the  right  end  of  telescopes  for  centuries,  and  can't 
tell  yet  whether  Mars  is  inhabited,  much  less  how  to  handle 
the  Mar-ites,  or  let  them  handle  themselves.  The  trouble 
with  you,  Sister  Intolerance,  is  that  you  quit  reading  his- 
tory in  1859;  that  your  controversial  library  consists  of 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  Whittier's  Poems  and  Ida  Wells' 
Eot ;  that  you  don't  know  the  moon  has  two  sides ;  that  you 
coddle  and  fondle  a  few  negro  runaway  scapegoats,  and 
insult  their  race  by  calling  them  its  representatives;  and, 
finally,  that  you  go  at  us  Southern  fellows  in  the  very  way 
calculated  to  make  us  go  at  you. 

I  don't  pretend  to  tell  you  how  to  adjust  your  labor 
troubles — I  have  my  own  opinion  about  those  labor  trou- 
bles, but,  until  I'm  asked,  I'll  keep  it.  Much  less  do  I 
take  the  word  of  any  hobo  mechanic  or  rank  partisan  sheet, 
that  every  capitalist  in  the  North  is  a  blankety!  blank! 
blank!  blank!! 

But  I  do  lay  claim  to  something  more  than  a  kinetoscope 
acquaintance  with  the  negro  and  what  you  are  pleased  to 
call  his  problem,  i.  e.,  his  best  way  of  putting  himself  on  an 
equality  with  us  Southern  folks. 

Now  let  me  tell  you,  Sister  Intolerance,  in  all  sincerity 
and  friendliness — Lord  knows  I  don't  envy  you  your  wealth, 
albeit  you  did  ours  in  '59 — let  me  tell  you  in  all  serious- 
ness, that  when  you  get  ready  to  meet  us  half  way  on  the 


248  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

field  of  generosity — I  don't  mean  money  generosity,  for  we 
are  all  poor  in  a  heap  down  here  and  glad  of  it,  but  true 
generosity,  we'll  meet  you  there  with  hallelujahs,  and  both 
of  us  will  mighty  soon  discover  that  we've  been  fooling 
with  this  so-called  problem  exactly  like  the  young  house- 
wife who  makes  a  cake  and  after  waiting  all  day  for  the 
cussed  thing  to  get  done,  remembers  she's  left  out  the  flour. 
Yes,  meet  us  there,  Sister  Intolerance,  and  we'll  both  of  us 
go  to  the  common-sense  barrel  and  make  another  cake,  and 
make  it  right.  If  we  don't  the  one  that's  burning  in  the 
stove  will  raise  such  a  smell  after  a  bit,  that  Omnipotence 
will  prosecute  us  for  stenching  space.  Yes,  meet  us  there, 
Sister  Intolerance,  not  as  Greek  meets  Greek,  for  you  know 
when  they  meet,  somebody  gets  pulled  over,  or  the  rope 
breaks — and  the  negro  in  this  tussle  is  playing  the  by  no 
means  unimportant  role  of  the  rope;  but  meet  us  there 
and  admit  that  when  you  made  the  Fourteenth  Amend- 
ment you  tried  to  change  a  law  of  nature  with  a  misapplied 
principle  of  Euclid,  to  wit :  things  equal  to  the  same  things 
are  equal  to  each  other — the  negro  is  equal  to  three  meals 
a  day,  a  white  man  is  equal  to  three  meals  a  day — ergo,  a 
negro  is  equal  to  a  white  man.  Admit  it,  Sister  Intoler- 
ance, and  we'll  admit,  that  in  sheer  desperation  of  ever 
mending  matters,  we  have  misapplied  another  great  prin- 
ciple of  Euclid,  to  wit :  a  straight  line  is  the  shortest  dis- 
tance between  two  points;  the  distance  between  the  limb 
of  a  tree  and  a  negny  criminal's  neck  is  a  straight  line ; 
ergo,  it's  the  shortest  distance. 

When  those  admissions  are  made,  we'll  go  back  and  work 
old  Euclid  out  right,  if  we  miss  our  supper  doing  it — as 
my  teacher  was  wont  to  remark. 

I  don't  wish  to  commence  tossing  bouquets  at  us  South- 
ern folks,  because  I  realize  that  there  is  no  praise  so  insin- 


THE   HARVEST.  349 

cere  and  disgusting  as  self-praise,  but — honest  injun — 
when  you  trot  out  generosity,  we  are  ready  to  mount; 
when  you  trot  out  intolerance,  we'll  balk  at  the  post.  We 
mount  the  former,  logic  or  no  logic;  we  balk  on  the  latter 
in  the  face  of  the  Ten  Commandments. 

Let  me  give  you  an  illustration  of  that  trait  in  our  char- 
acter, Sister  Intolerance,  and  bear  in  mind  it's  better  than 
a  fable,  in  that  it's  true.  In  the  early  fall  of  '98  the  out- 
look for  peace  between  Spain  and  the  United  States  was  so 
promising  that  President  McKinley  decided  to  muster  out 
half  of  the  Volunteers.  The  Eegiment  of  which  I  had  the 
honor  to  be  a  humble  member,  was  included  in  the  order, 
and  we  boys  were  so  proud  of  the  President's  generosity 
that  we  said,  then  and  there,  he  could  have  our  votes  in 
1900.  Yet,  if  the  Republican  party  would  come  in  our 
State  during  a  political  canvass  and  say  to  the  negro,  as 
they  have  been  saying  in  terms  for  the  last  forty  years: 
"We  pledge  you  poor,  down-trodden,  virtuous,  highly  civil- 
ized colored  gentlemen  to  make  it  hot  for  these  bull-whip 
slave-beating  lynchers,"  we  would  take  pleasure  in  rolling 
up  our  usual  hundred  thousand  majority  for  the  other 
fellow,  regardless  of  what  derned  nonsense  lie  proposed 
to  do. 

No,  no,  Sister  Intolerance,  don't  sit  up  there  in  Fanueil 
Hall  and  try  to  solve  a  problem  that  exists  only  in  the  dis- 
torted reflection  of  your  imagination. 

A  finger  pressing  an  electric  button  may  start  some  im- 
portant event  a  globe  away,  because  there  is  a  logical  wire 
between  the  button  and  the  event;  but  you  can't  do  it, 
Sister  Intolerance,  you  can't  do  it.  You  can't  press  the 
button  of  denunciation  and  expect  to  start  anything  in  the 
South  but  contempt — and  more  lynchings.  If  contempt 


250  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

were  all,  the  harm  would  not  be  so  great  from  a  purely  prac- 
tical standpoint,  but  the  more  lynchings  is  the  knot. 

All  that  the  bad  negro  gathers  from  your  denunciations 
is,  a  barbecue  time  when  he  can  cultivate  one  long,  con- 
tinued crop  of  vice  under  your  protection.  All  the  good 
negro  gathers  from  it — well,  the  good  negro  doesn't  gather 
anything  from  it.  He's  too  busy  tending  that  cotton,  dig- 
ging those  potatoes,  and  fattening  those  hogs,  to  know  that 
such  a  place  as  Fanueil  Hall  exists.  He  knows  that  "the 
Squire  is  gwine  to  give  them  niggers  the  biggest  kind  ob  a 
break-down,  with  plenty  o'  cider  an'  truck,  in  the  ole  barn 
at  huskin'  time,"  and,  Lord  bless  your  soul,  Sister  Intoler- 
ance, he  wouldn't  forego  that  dance  for  Fanueil  Hall  or 
Heaven,  with  all  due  respect  for  both  places.  Xo,  no, 
Sister  Intolerance,  force  of  arms  may  whip  the  South,  but 
it  will  never  conquer  her;  generosity,  love,  fair  play,  for- 
bearance and  a  hearty  hand  shake  will  do  that. 

So,  Brother  Bigot  and  Sister  Intolerance,  if  you  can't 
get  it  into  your  heads  to  meet  on  that  basis,  clear  the  deck. 
Honest  Yankee  and  Squire  Dixie  will  take  a  hand — for 
those  two  old  fellows  ain't  going  to  have  Gran'pa  Republic 
walk  in  some  day  and  ask :  "What  have  ye  done  with  that 
Parchment?"  They  want  him  to  see  on  every  hand  a 
bountiful  harvest  of  law,  order,  suffrage  for  the  intelligent, 
education  for  the  ignorant,  reward  for  fhe  virtuous,  legal 
punishment  for  the  wicked,  and  Liberty's  seal  unbroken. 

Then  questions  wilt  be  out  of  order,  and  congratulations 
will  be  next  on  the  calendar. 


'CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

THE  COST. 

I  HAVE  whiled  away  a  whole  chapter  on  theory ;  let  us  go 
back  to  our  story  and  count  up  the  real  cost  of  Pedro's 
sudden  taking  off ;  let  us  sum  up  the  items,  divide  the  total 
by  reason,  common  sense,  practicability,  or  whatever  you 
choose  to  call  it,  and  see  if  the  quotient  gives  us  our  money's 
worth. 

When  the  wagon  carrying  Laura  arrived  at  the  Honey- 
burr's,  old  man  Honeyburr,  without  waiting  for  particu- 
lars, saddled  and  armed,  and  put  into  immediate  execution 
Dud's  summons  to  Pike,  with  a  piece  of  news  that  was 
erroneous  because  it  never  happened.  Yet — for  old  man 
Honeyburr  would  have  deplored  an  outrage  sincerely  and 
vehemently — he  could  not  withstand  the  opportunit}r  for 
what  the  baseballists  call  a  grand-stand  play. 

Meanwhile,  Mother  Doyle,  aided  by  the  Honeyburr 
household,  did  all  in  her  power  to  comfort  Laura  and  bring 
her  mind  safely  out  from  the  awful  strain  it  had  under- 
gone. 

The  result  was  eminently  successful,  for  Laura's  mind 
was  none  of  your  mewling,  weeping,  hysterical,  hurt-bef  ore- 
you're-hit  creations,  and  the  actual  shock  over,  and  her 
friends  surrounding  her,  she  soon  was  the  self-possessed, 
unassuming,  brave  little  woman  she  had  always  been. 
Grasping  the  first  opportunity,  she  told  Mother  Doyle  that 
she  thought  it  would  be  better  for  them  to  go  home — 

[250 


MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

that  there  was  Ho  occasion  for  further  taxing  the  Honey- 
burr's  hospitality — that  Betty  would  undoubtedly  hear  all 
sorts  of  reports,  and  would  be  correspondingly  alarmed,  and 
that,  in  a  word,  home  would  be  secure  against  sensation 
seekers,  and  home  was  where  she  wanted  to  go.  So  home 
they  went.  Mother  Doyle,  we  know,  was  of  that  firm,  self- 
reliant  nature  that  she  would  have  broached  it  first,  but  for 
respect  for  the  Honeyburrs;  she  wouldn't,  for  the  world, 
have  them  think  that  their  many  attentions  were  inade- 
quate, but  she  knew  that  once  home  with  dear,  sympa- 
thetic Betty  and  her  Matthew — her  stronghold  in  any- 
emergency — she  and  Laura  both  would  be,  if  not  actually; 
better  off,  easier  in  mind.  So  home  they  went. 

The  picnickers  had  preceded  them  some  hours  since, 
and,  indeed,  when  they  at  last  came  in  sight  of  the  house, 
the  sun  had  entirely  disappeared. 

As  they  made  the  last  quarter  of  a  mile  leading  past  the 
front  gate,  a  single  rifle  shot  rang  out  on  the  still  atmos- 
phere and  startled  them;  it  was  followed  presently  by  a 
volley  of  shooting  and  yelling  from  the  direction  of  the 
depot,  and  above  it  all,  Mother  Doyle  thought  she  could 
hear  Dud's  powerful  voice  crying,  "Stop!  Stop!  Stop!" 
But  she  wasn't  sure — the  uproar  was  so  terrific  during  its 
short  duration,  and  she  was  so  alarmed,  that  it  may  have 
been  mere  fancy.  She  mentioned  it  to  Laura. 

"Did  you  recognize  Dudley's  voice;  Laura?" 

"Why,  it  seems  to  me/!  heard  Mr.  Trenome,  but  the  noise 
was  so  great." 

The  youthful  Honeyburr,  who  was  driving  them  in,  had 
been  alternately  gasping  "Geemenee  !"  and  craning  his  neck 
with  all  possible,  and  seemingly  impossible,  elasticity,  and 
he  now  put  in : 

"I  ain't  sure,  Mother  Doyle,  but  I  believe  they've  hung 


THE  COST.  253 

somebody — there's  a  man  or  something  danglin'  from  a 
telegraph  pole  in  front  o'  the  depot." 

The  two  women  shuddered. 

Somebody  hung?  Pedro  surely  hadn't  ventured  back  to 
Pike.  And  Dud's  voice?  What  did  that  "Stop!  Stop! 
Stop !"  mean,  for  the  more  she  pondered  it  the  firmer  she 
became  convinced  that  it  was  his  voice.  Mother  Doyle  was 
strongly  tempted  to  tell  young  Honeyburr  to  drive  on  and 
not  stop  short  of  the  depot,  but  prudence  suggested  other- 
wise, and  besides,  she  murmured  with  relief,  while  her 
alarm  abated : 

"Mat's  there,  surely,  and  he'll  render  a  good  account." 

A  mother's  trust  in  her  boy.  How  often  is  that  trust 
bruised  and  disappointed.  How  often  does  a  mother's 
heart  flutter  in  despair  as  she  fears  to  hear  the  news  from 
her  boy — loving  him  yet  better  than  all  the  world,  but 
knowing  that  again  and  still  again,  he  will  drag  that  heav- 
enly love  through  the  thorns  and  briars.  Mother  Doyle, 
thou  art  thrice  blessed  in  a  son  who  loves  your  love,  because 
he  respects  and  lives  up  to  your  ideal.  Death  has  no  sting 
for  such — for  thou  knowest  the  grim  Monarch  cans't  never 
claim  your  boy  in  an  evil  hour;  he  knows  no  evil  hours. 
The  ringing  notes  of  duty  ever  chiming  in  harmony  with 
the  chords  of  filial  love,  are  ever  too  clear  and  dear  on  his 
ears  for  the  siren's  song  to  find  response.  Well  may  you 
murmur  your  faith  in  his  account,  Mother  Doyle,  for  unless 
the  chalice  now  coming  to  your  lips,  hath  the  pearl  of  duty^ 
done  shining  in  the  bottom,  bitter,  oh,  galling,  will  be  its 
dregs. 

They  drew  up  at  the  gate,  and  Betty,  who  had  come  out 
on  the  porch  at  the  first  shot,  came  hurriedly  down  to  meet 
them,  happy  beyond  expression  to  see  Laura  safe  and  well. 


254  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

While  they  were  alighting,  Mother  Doyle  observed  a  horse- 
man ride  out  from  the  depot's  direction  and  head  towards 
them,  and  she  saw  presently  a  little  knot  of  men  on  foot, 
huddled  together,  following  him.  Things  appeared  so 
indistinct  in  the  gathering  twilight,  that  she  did  not  try  to 
recognize  the  party,  until  the  Honeyburr  boy  said,  more  to 
himself  than  aloud: 

"It's  Mister  Dud." 

"Huh !"  exclaimed  Mother  Doyle,  a  vague  tremor  pass- 
ing over  her.  "Mister  Dudley?  Are — you  sure?" 

She  didn't  know  why  she  asked  the  question,  but  that 
vague  tremor  grew  and  grew,  until  she  advanced  to  the 
team's  heads,  and  watched  the  oncoming  group  as  well  as 
she  could  in  the  dusk.  Dud,  for  it  was  he,  was  some  sixty 
yards  ahead  of  the  rest,  and  when  he  made  out  the  Honey- 
burr  team,  and  Mother  Doyle  and  all,  he  quickened  his  pace 
until  he  was  within  speaking  distance.  He  had  no  idea 
what  he  was  going  to  say,  and  coming  so  suddenly  upon 
Mother  Doyle  and  Laura,  whom  he  thought  still  at  Honey- 
burrs,  he  was  full  at  sea.  But  he  managed  to  call  out  in 
some  faint  degree  of  coolness : 

"Mother  Doyle,  we  didn't  expect  you  or  Miss  Hennon,  or 
we'd  have — " 

"We  were  anxious  to  come.  Dudley,"  she  interrupted, 
and  then  going  quickly  to  his  side,  she  asked : 

"Where  is  Matthew?" 

Dud  was  no  actor,  and  even  if  he  had  been,  what  would 
it  have  availed?  The  most  consummate  art  can  conceal 
nothing  from  a  mother  like  the  news  he  brought. 

She  knew  now  what  that  little  knot  of  men  huddled  so 
closely  together  meant,  and  she  ran  to  meet  them,  brushed 
them  aside,  and  fell  sobbing  on  her  son's  silent  breast. 


THE  COST. 


255 


"Oh !  Dudley !"  she  cried,  "why  did  you  let  them  kill 
him?" 

A  wild,  frenzied  shriek  arose  on  the  night  air  at  the 
sound  of  "Kill  him." 

"Kill  him?  Is  he  dead?  Is  he  dead?  Is  he  dead?" 
screamed  Mat's  only  sister,  the  sister  who  idolized  him,  who 
had  scorned  the  man  she  loved  for  insulting  him,  who  knew 
not  what  happiness  meant  unless  Mat  was  happy,  too.  She 
did  not  love  him  more  than  did  Mother  Doyle,  but  she 
lacked  that  tried  and  tempered  fortitude  to  sustain  the 
blow.  No,  she  could  not  bear  up. 

"Dead !  Dead !  Dead !"  she  still  wailed,  and  coming  to 
the  still  clay  that  had  so  lately  been  her  noble  brother,  she 
swayed  and  fell  across  his  form. 

Let  us  drop  the  dark  curtain,  dear  reader.  There  is 
misery  enough  in  life  without  my  drawing  it  out  here — 
there  are  tears  enough,  yes,  more  than  enough — if  tears 
were  legal  tender  we'd  all  be  rich  and  disown  poverty.  Let 
our  stricken  friends  take  their  sacred  dead  and  their  sadly 
afflicted  living  into  the  humble  house.  Let  them  be  alone 
with  their  God  in  the  hour  when  no  human  counsel  sus- 
taineth.  Let  them  bow  before  Sorrow's  crown — we  could 
not  wear  it  for  them  if  we  would,  and  in  our  vain  efforts 
to  lighten  it  would  only  press  down  the  thorns  more 
sharply.  Let  the  dead  alone  with  the  living  who,  in  life, 
alone  loved  the  dead.  The  sun  has  not  set  forever  on  their 
hopes,  ah,  no,  far,  far  from  it.  We  could  not  call  now  the 
sunken  rays  back  again  to  life  to  light  the  closed  eyes,  but 
He  will  in  His  own  wise  time,  bid  the  orb  of  morn  rise  and 
flood  the  stricken  and  the  sorrowed  in  a  sun-burst  of  Im- 
mortality. 

Leave  them  alone,  and  to-night  when  they  look  out  at 
the  canopy  of  brilliants,  and  see  through  their  tears  a  new; 


2  $6  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

star,  they  will  know  that  the  angels  have  placed  Duty's 
royal  crown  on  the  brow  of  him  they  mourn. 


The  next  day  when  Dud  was  starting  home  to  dress  for 
the  funeral,  Laura  overtook  him  on  the  gallery  and  said 
softly : 

"Mr.  Trenome,  Mother  Doyle  has  asked  me  to  tell  you 
how  sorry  she  is  for  saying  that  last  night." 

"Saying  what  ?"  asked  Dud,  surprisedly. 

"  "Why  did  you  let  them  kill  him.'  The  men  have  told 
us  all — how  nobly  you  stood  by  him,  and  how,  if  they  had 
all  done  their  duty  like  you,  that  poor  Mat  would  be  alive." 

Dud  endeavored  to  stop  her  by  a  gesture  of  depreca- 
tion—he couldn't  say  anything — but  she  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  his  arm  and  continued: 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Trenome ;  none  know  better  than  I  what  a 
friend  Mat  had  in  you — believe  me,  his  death  cannot  be  a 
greater  loss  to  you,  than  yours  would  have  been  to  him.  I 
know  that  in  upholding  him  to  the  last  yesterday,  you  had 
to  stifle  the  biddings  of  your  convictions,  and  therefore, 
you  have  made  the  noblest  sacrifice  a  man  can  make. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Trenome,  I  envy  Mother  Doyle  and  poor,  sweet 
Betty  in  having  such  a  friend  as  you.  Howsoever  heavy 
may  be  their  grief — and  I  know  it  is  heavy,  for  I,  too,  loved 
Mat  like  a  brother — bui  heavy  though  their's  be,  the  knowl- 
edge of  your  friendship  will  soften  their  sorrow  and  lighten 
their  burden  greater  than  all  else  combined.  Did  every 
man  make  true  generosity  his  beacon,  as  you  have  done,  the 
watch  fires  would  illuminate  the  heavens." 

She  could  say  no  more — her  fingers  slipped  from  Dud's 
arm,  and  she  buried  her  face  in  sobs  and  turned  to  go. 


THE   COST.  257 

Dud  held  out  his  hand  and  tried  to  give  voice  to  what 
was  welling  in  his  heart,  but  his  tongue  could  utter  no 
sound,  and  so  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  raised  it  tenderly, 
gallantly  to  his  lips,  and  left:  and  Laura  knew  by  that 
token,  that  she  shared,  with  Mother  Doyle  and  Betty,  the 
rare  and  priceless  gem. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  ROMAN  FATHER. 

THEY  say  an  author  has  not  fulfilled  his  full  duty  to  the 
reader  until  he  has  disposed  of  all  his  characters — gotten 
rid  of  them  somehow,  even  if  he  has  to  chop  their  heads  off. 

But  what  if  his  characters  ain't  his  characters?  What 
if  they  are  "free,  white,  and  twenty-one,"  as  the  saying 
goes?  Eh?  Then,  I  trow,  they  will  have  to  dispose  of 
themselves. 

If  Deacon  Hicks,  "Dear"  Uncle  Alec  McNeil,  and  the 
only  Bill  Ott  belonged  to  me,  I'd  put  the  Deacon,  say,  at 
the  head  of  the  cash  department  of  a  Foreign  Missionary 
Society.  I'd  put  "Dear,"  say,  at  the  head  of  those  forty 
negroes  her  pa  used  to  own  (?)  and  let  her  talk  them  to 
death.  I'd  put  Uncle  Alec  McXeil,  say,  at  the  head  of  a 
patent  chill  cure  concern,  where  he  could  cure  those  shak- 
ers going  and  coming,  and  I'd  put  the  indomitable  Bill  Ott 
at  the  head  of  a  barrel  of  whisky,  a  barrel  of  water,  and  a 
tin  cup,  and  let  every  day  be  Sunday  for  Bill  (on  second 
thoughts  I'd  leave  out  the  barrel  of  water) . 

Having  done  that,  I  believe  both  the  reader  and  myself 
could  rest  contented. 

But,  ah,  me!  there  is  precious  little  contentment  here 

below,  I'm  told  by  people  who  pretend  to  have  a  corner  on 

that   article  and  are  bulling  the  market.     Yes,  precious 

little,  and,  so  four  of  the  best  and  biggest  folks  that  Pike 

[258] 


THE   ROMAN   FATHER.  259 

ever  afforded  at  any  one  given  time,  must  get  rid  of  them- 
selves to  their  own  satisfaction,  if  not  to  ours. 

They  found  Deacon  Hicks  in  his  room  at  the  parsonage, 
right  where  Pedro  had  deposited  him.  He  hadn't  budged 
a  hair's  breadth  in  sixteen  hours,  and  hence  they  felt  justi- 
fied in  concluding  that  he  was  dead.  Bill  Ott  gave  it  as 
his  unbiased  opinion,  that  it  would  require  more  than  "one 
nigger  to  kill  the  owner  and  proprietor  of  such  a  vig'rous 
breath  as  the  Deacon's."  Then  they  examined  him  again 
— while  the  undertaker  grew  pale  with  apprehension — and, 
sure  enough,  he  was  alive.  Meanwhile  they  had  found 
some  astounding  surprises  in  the  Deacon's  sanctuary.  First, 
his  trunk,  bureau,  and  all  had  evidently  been  rifled  by 
Pedro,  before  that  gentleman  was  rifled,  and  they  found 
amongst  other  things  not  considered  indispensable  to  a 
Deacon's  paraphernalia,  an  empty  tin  box  bearing  the 
talismanic  hieroglyphics  "TJ.  S.,"  which  hieroglyphics  have 
a  peculiar  tendency  to  rise  up  and  stare  a  fellow  in  the  face 
just  when  he  would  rather  not  see  them.  They  frequently 
perform  this  aeronautical  feat  on  forged  pension  papers, 
broken  mail  locks,  decoy  letters,  and  a  variety  of  other 
tangible  evidences,  but  wherever  and  however  done,  it  ends 
in  a  contract,  the  terms  of  which  are,  that  the  party  stared 
in  the  face  will  agree  to  remain  in  some  definite  place  for 
some  definite  time,  on  condition  that  "U.  S."  will  quit  star- 
ing. The  Deacon  made  a  mighty  pother  about  it — that  is, 
as  much  of  a  pother  as  a  man  can  make  with  his  teeth  all 
knocked  out,  but  the  twelve  witnesses  who  had  assembled 
on  the  Deacon's  convalescence,  to  arbitrate  the  contract 
above  mentioned  and  fix  terms  (see  supra),  decided  that 
about  ten  years  in  Sing  Sing  was  not  any  too  exorbitant  a 
price  for  the  good  man  to  pay. 

He  is  now  paying  it  on  the  installment  plan,  and  the  war- 


26O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

den  tells  me  is  very  docile,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  as  all 
truly  good  men  should  be — and  doubtless  are ! 

"Dear" — well,  I  can't  speak  of  "Dear"  without  joining 
Uncle  Alec  McNeil's  name,  for  that  worthy  pair  were  never 
made  to  be  separated  in  name  or  in  deed. — "Dear"  and 
Uncle 'Alec  McNeil  did  finally  catch  a  fish  up  at  the  city, 
and  they  took  the  sum  realized  from  the  sale  of  the  "Cheap- 
est credit  store  Pike  had  ever  known"  (which  were  "Dear's" 
words  to  the  fish)  and  established  them  a — uh — refresh- 
ment parlor;  but  as  the  City  went  dry  the  next  election, 
the  twain  were  reduced  to  the  pleasant  task  of  imbibing 
their  stock  in  trade  before  it  "spiled."  So  I  imagine 
"Dear"  has  a  continual  mental  retrospect  of  eighty  instead 
of  forty  negro  slaves,  and  Uncle  Alec  McNeil  is  having  a 
pretty  "shakering"  time  of  it. 

Wicked  Bill  Ott,  alone  of  the  four,  sticks  to  the  home  of 
his  ancestors.  The  last  time  I  saw  William,  he  was  unde- 
cided whether  to  join  the  church  or  move  to  Kentucky. 
He  said: 

"They  ought  to  dig  a  di'ch  aroun'  that  cussed  City  an' 
sink  it — the  idea  of  it's  goin'  dry !  H — 1  fire,  nobody  but 
the  Baptists  air  got  any  licker  these  days,  an'  I  reckon  I'll 
have  to  jine  'em."  But  there's  hope  for  Bill  yet.  The 
prospect  of  that  initial  ducking  necessary  to  espouse  the 
faith  will  hold  him  off,  I  suspect,  until  the  City  goes  wet 
again.  . 

Those  nice,  crisp,  neV  greenbacks  were  found  reposing 
quietly  in  the  Hicks  safe,  and  the  sawmill's  creditors,  who 
had,  of  course,  waltzed  in  at  the  first  thunder  clap,  swore 
and  be  dog-goned  they  would  have  them  on  their  accounts ; 
but  a  special  commission  had  come  down  from  the  Gov- 
ernor appointing  Dudley  Trenome,  Sheriff,  pro  tern.,  and 
the  Sheriff,  pro  tern.,  swore  and  be  ding-danged  if  they 


THE   ROMAN   FATHER.  26 1 

would  have  them.  His  Honor,  who  had  presided  at  the 
little  seance  of  Deacon  Hicks'  U.  S.  contract,  decided  that 
from  the  evidence,  those  nice,  crisp,  new  greenbacks  were 
the  identical  ones  that  had  been  so  kindly  brought  from 
the  City  by  Deacon  Hicks  to  Old  Alan  Dodd,  and  that,  inas- 
much as  there  was  no  evidence  of  Old  Man  Dodd's  ever 
having  given,  granted,  conveyed,  or  bequeathed  them,  the 
ownership  still  rested  in  him.  Thank  an  ever  just  Provi- 
dence, that  a  just  pension,  at  last  and  for  once,  found  a 
just  owner,  and  that  Old  Man  Dodd's  pension  money  can- 
not be  included  in  the  costs  of  Pedro's  lynching;  and  I 
wish  I  could  say  that  Old  Man  Dodd  himself  was  left  as 
free  from  its  baleful  effects. 

If  only  the  guilty  themselves  suffered  for  their  mis- 
deeds, equity  would  be  undisturbed,  but  when  the  innocent 
are  put  on  the  rack,  equity  revolts. 

If  Law  says  to  A :  "See  here,  I've  stood  your  capers  just 
as  long  as  I'm  going  to  stand  'em.  You've  been  my  enemy 
ever  since  you  were  able  to  shuffle  a  deck  of  cards.  You've 
done  nothing  but  mock  and  scorn  me  in  all  your  actions. 
You've  been  a  standing  rebuke  to  me  who  hast  protected 
you.  You've  stifled  every  good  impulse  to  make  room  for 
evil,  and  you've,  at  last,  made  your  presence  at  large  an 
insufferable  menace  to  me  and  mine.  I  shall  not  have  the 
rest  of  the  alphabet  suffer  because  of  your  sins,  and,  there- 
fore, I'll  put  you  in  gaol,  where  you  can  take  your  cussed- 
ness  out  on  the  rock  pile  when  you  feel  it  bubbling  over." 

Such  a  discourse  from  Law  to  A.  is  appropriate,  and  if 
acted  upon,  will  be  beneficial  to  the  rest  of  the  alphabet. 

But  if  A.  says,  in  substance :  "Fire  away,  Law ;  I  never 
respected  you  and  ain't  a-goin'  to  begin  at  this  late  date. 
Fire  away — you  can't  harm  me,  anyhow.  I'm  so  far 
steeped  in  gall,  that  sugar  is  my  antipodes.  Fire  away, 


262  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

you  can't  hurt  me,  old  Law,  and  you'll  only  break  B/s 
heart." 

What  have  we  got  to  say  then?  Why,  that  it  is  rough 
onB. 

Then  Law  replies  to  A.,  and  says : 

"But  B.  has  always  been  my  friend,  he  has  obeyed  my 
precepts,  and  held  himself  upright  before  all  men.  Where- 
fore should  I  reverse  scripture  and  visit  upon  the  father 
the  sins  of  the  son  ?" 

To  which  A.  gives  bitter  response : 

"Because  you  let  loose  upon  me,  when  I  was  a  fledgling, 
pernicious  teachers,  who  told  me  that  manliness  laid  in 
drunkenness,  and  taught  me  that  only  milk-sops  respected 

you." 

And  Law  bowed  down  his  head  and  wept  to  think  that 
those  weeds  of  the  Ott  outfit,  whom  he  could  have  choked, 
or  at  least,  scattered,  had  grown  up  in  a  body  and  blighted 
the  pure  growth ;  wept  to  think  that  they  went  unscatched, 
while  misguided  A.  and  unoffending  B.  went  through  the 
fire ;  wept  to  think  that  the  rest  of  the  alphabet  would  wait 
until  the  Ott  outfit  should  have  committed  a  prescribed 
felony  before  putting  them  where  their  example  could 
affect  naught  but  four  walls — as  if  it  wasn't  as  much  of  a 
felony  to  kill  a  pure  young  soul  as  its  body.  But  there  was 
nothing  for  it  now ;  the  ounce  of  prevention  had  been  neg- 
lected, and  only  a  very  big  pound  of  cure  could  now  answer, 
and  as  that  pound  never/went  near  the  Ott  outfit,  it  was  no 
cure  at  all.  The  Ott  outfit  still  flourishes  and  thrives  on 
every  crumbling  bit  of  decay  that  is  constantly  dropping, 
fungus-like,  from  Law. 

After  Pantalooned  Pike  had  safely  and  permanently  re- 
lieved itself  of  Pedro's  presence,  it  found  out  a  number  of 
interesting  facts  that  would  have  been  not  entirely  devoid 


THE  ROMAN   FATHER.  263 

of  good  results  had  they  been  looked  into  before  the  lynch- 
ing. 

First,  and  perhaps  most  important,  they  learned  that 
Pedro  hadn't  been  exactly  guilty  of  the  capital  offense. 
When  old  man  Honeyburr  dashed  up  with  his  firebrand, 
and  was  almost  immediately  succeeded  by  Mat  and  Dud, 
who  endeavored — honestly — to  throw  water  on  the  fire- 
brand, Pantalooned  Pike  wouldn't  have  it  that  way.  Know- 
ing Mat's  anti-lynching  sentiments,  and  seeing  Dud  quiet 
and  laboring  under  heavy  feelings,  they  made  no  doubt  but 
that  Pedro  was  guilty  of  the  worst,  and,  on  that  ground, 
let  the  merits  of  the  case  go  unexamined  until  it  had  be- 
come a  matter  of  no  moment  to  Pedro  whether  the  affair 
was  settled  on  the  evidence  or  not. 

Not  so  with  press  and  people.  Press  and  people  her- 
alded the  lynching  abroad  in  the  land,  and  out  of  the 
chaff  of  sensation  was  picked  the  truth  of  the  thing,  and 
out  of  the  chaff  of  intolerance  and  bigotry  was  picked  an 
honest  reckoning. 

"Southern  outrages"  had  its  day,  of  course,  and  North- 
ern cussedness  received  retaliation  in  kind,  but  after  intol- 
erance and  bigotry  had  vented  and  vaunted  themselves 
hoarse,  sense  began  to  solve  what  nonsense  had  hopelessly 
tangled. 

Then  it  was  that  Pantalooned  Pike  made  discovery  num- 
ber two.  They  found  out  to  their  great  surprise,  that  Mat 
had  never  requested  any  favor  of  them  at  all — that  he  had 
simply  required  them  to  do  their  duty,  and  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Andy  Dodd,  they  would  have,  beyond  peradven- 
ture  of  a  doubt,  done  their  duty.  They  weren't  at  all  clear 
as  to  when  they  would  have  begun,  but  they  were  positive, 
mighty  positive,  that  they  had  been  just  crazy  to  stand  by 


264  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

poor  Mat  and  uphold  the  law,  and  do  their  duty,  and  that 
Andy  Dodd  frustrated  the  noble  design. 

So,  quite  naturally,  such  reflections  led  the  way  to  dis- 
covery number  three,  which  was  no  less  than  Andy's  arrest 
for  murder ;  and  there  is  no  question  whatever  but  that,  in 
the  pious  revulsion  of  feeling  that  had  overtaken  Panta- 
looned  Pike,  Andy  would  have  punctuated  some  tree  limb 
as  had  Pedro,  had  not  the  Sheriff  pro  tern,  hustled  him  to 
the  City.  When  bigotry  does  get  good,  why  it  will  do  any- 
thing, from  holding  inquisitions  to  burning  witches. 

Andy,  under  the  careful  professional  tutelage  of  the  Ott 
outfit,  had  for  years  been  endeavoring  by  a  systematic 
course  of  vice,  to  break  his  father's  heart,  and  this  last  blow 
well-nigh  bowed  the  old  man's  head  forever.  He  was  of 
that  rugged  old  pioneer  type  who  can  stand  the  battering  of 
adversity,  charge  after  charge,  but  who,  when  they  do  suc- 
cumb, are  past  revival.  For  years  his  only  sustaining  hope 
had  been  to  see  Andy  started  on  his  own  hook,  independent, 
sober  and  industrious.  He  had  hammered  at  the  pension 
with  bull-dog  tenacity  for  that  purpose,  and  that  alone,  but 
now  it  all  went  to  ashes.  At  last  he  had  the  pension 
money,  after  having  despaired  of  its  recovery — but  where 
was  Andy?  In  a  place  where  no  person  with  Old  Man 
Dodd's  blood  in  his  veins  had  ever  been  before,  and  in 
there,  too,  for  a  dastardly  crime — one  that  made  his  Chris- 
tian father's  blood  stand  still  and  almost  congeal. 

This  was  the  reward  of  virtue.  This  was  the  harvest  of 
a  life  of  uprightness  and  integrity.  This  was  the  end  of 
his  hopes  and  plans  for  Andy.  It  was  hard,  hard,  hard. 

He  could  have  been  excused  for  closing  that  Book  which 
had  always  been  his  Eock  of  Ages,  and  crying  out  in  very 
bitterness  of  soul :  "Away,  lies — all  lies !"  But  far  from  it. 
Wounded  and  tottering,  with  the  light  of  life  growing  dim 


THE   ROMAN  FATHER.  265 

and  slowly  giving  place  to  the  light  of  another  and  a  death- 
less life,  the  old  man  turned  the  sacred  chapters  over  until 
he  came  again  for  the  thousandth  time  to  the  patient  man's 
woes,  and  spelling  out  with  trembling  lips  the  grand  lesson 
of  fortitude,  he  knelt  by  his  now  deserted  and  smitten  cot, 
and  said  with  the  patriarch:  "Blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord.  Shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of  God  and  shall 
we  not  receive  evil  ?  Behold,  happy  is  the  man  whom  God 
correcteth:  therefore  despise  not  the  chastening  of  the 
Almighty.  He  is  wise  in  heart  and  mighty  in  strength. 
Who  hath  hardened  himself  against  him  and  hath  pros- 
pered? If  I  justify  myself,  mine  own  mouth  shall  con- 
demn me.  If  I  say  I  am  perfect,  it  shall  also  prove  me 
perverse.  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him: 
for  I  know  that  my  Bedeeiner  liveth,  and  that  he  shall 
stand  at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth/' 

Such  was  the  old  man's  faith.  A  simple  faith,  say  our 
master  minds — our  Huxleys,  Tindalls,  and  Greggs — but  an 
honest  one,  they  must  admit,  and  in  the  very  simplicity  of 
its  honesty,  a  sublime  faith.  With  his  head  upon  the  open 
page  of  the  Book,  he  received  the  stroke,  nor  complained 
nor  questioned.  Golconda's  mines  for  such  a  faith!  I 
often  see  the  painted  dame  and  the  broad-clothed  sire 
incline  their  well-groomed  heads,  while  some  powdered 
purveyor  of  fashionable  religion  tosses  bouquets  down  the 
velvet  aisles,  and  congratulates  God  on  having  such  a  long 
long  congregation,  and  then  mine  eyes  beg  memory  to  take 
me  back  to  the  little  bare  room  made  desolate  by  sorrow, 
and  learn  of  Christ  from  a  true  follower,  even  though  old, 
decrepit,  unread  and  un veneered.  Poverty?  Great  Jeho- 
vah !  What  costly  gems  in  your  jewel  case,  painted  Dame, 
and  what  gilt-edge  bond  in  your  vault,  broad-clothed  Sire, 
would  purchase  on  'change  a  tithe  of  such  a  treasure  ?. 


266  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

Meanwhile,  Andy  was  alone  in  a  cell.  The  hue  «*nd  cry 
was  at  its  height,  and  the  little  he  heard  from  the  outside 
world  filled  him  with  alarm.  The  Governor  had  said  pub- 
licly that  Mat's  murder  would  he  vindicated,  that  patience 
had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue,  that  a  rigid  investigation  would 
be  ordered,  and  much  more  to  the  same  effect,  and  as  Andy 
had  never  enjoyed  a  very  extensive  acquaintance  with  Gov- 
ernors, he,  of  course,  didn't  understand  that  all  those  public 
utterances  were  to  be  construed  politically.  Then,  too,  the 
press — Lord  bless  the  press ! — It,  or  they  (I  don't  know 
whether  it  considers  itself  more  than  one  or  not,  but  I'll  say 
'it  for  convenience),  it  can  always  be  relied  on  to  out-bray 
a  brigade  of  jackasses  when  sensation  furnishes  the  wind. 
The  press  said  all  the  immensely  bright  and  interesting 
things  about  the  affair  that  it  has  always  been  saying,  and 
with  the  never-varying  result,  that  the  Northern  press 
'called  the  Southern  press  an  unmitigated  chump,  and  the 
Southern  press  kicked  up  its  hind  legs  and  said,  "You're 
another ! !"  and  then  they  concluded  that  the  best  thing 
under  the  circumstances  was  to  break  Andy's  neck. 

Andy  was  very  properly  wrought  up  over  such  a  conclu- 
sion, and  despatched  one  of  the  jailors  who  knew  of  a  great 
lawyer — so  he  said — who  would  save  Andy's  neck — so  he 
said — and  show  the  Governor,  and  the  press,  and  the  bal- 
ance of  them  a  trick  or  two — so  he  said.  The  great  lawyer 
came — came  a-running,  but  he  stopped  before  he  arrived 
at  Andy's  cell,  and  sauntered  in  with  an  air  that  spake : 

"Now,  young  man,  don't  think  I'm  going  to  take  your 
case.  I  just  came  to  satisfy  the  jailer." 

What  he  actually  said,  however,  must  have  been  differ- 
ent. Birds  of  a  feather  possess  that  inherent  propensity 
of  flocking  together  in  cells  or  in  pews,  and  when,  an  hour 


THE  ROMAN   FATHER.  267 

later,  the  great  lawyer  shook  hands  familiarly  with  Andy, 
he  said,  jauntily: 

"Keep  your  backbone  stiff,  Dodd.  I'll  be  at  Pike  this 
evening  an  if  I  don't  bring  back  enough  of  that  pension 
money  to  buy  a  jury,  they  can  hang  me.  The  old  man'll 
pony  up — persecuted  son,  penitent  sinner — eh  ?  eh  ?  What's  i 
the  trump,  eh  ?  eh  ?  Ha !  ha !  Dodd,  it's  easier  to  make  a 
necktie  than  to  tie  one,  eh?  eh?  Good-by — drink  all  you 
please,  but  don't  eat  anything — persecuted  racket,  eh?  eh? 
See?  Good-bye." 

Thus  met  and  parted  Andy  and  the  great  lawyer.  The 
latter  was  at  Pike  on  the  afternoon  train,  and  ushered  him- 
self into  the  post-office.  A  young  girl,  who  had  kindly 
volunteered  to  attend  to  the  few  duties,  was  behind  the 
counter. 

"Good  day,  miss.  Squire  Dodd  home?"  The  great 
lawyer  with  an  eye  to  policy  always  used  "Squire"  in  the 
rural  districts. 

"Yes,  sir;   he's  lyin'  down." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  understand ;  I  see — I  see ;  I — ah — come  from 
young  Dodd." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  she  interrupted;  "then  he'll  be  glad  to 
see  you — come  back." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  little  bare  room  that  was  dark- 
ened. 

"Mr.  Dodd,"  she  said,  softly,  "here's  a — a  gentleman 
from  Town;  he  comes  from  Andy." 

"Raise  the  curtains,  my  dear,  and  place  a  chair,"  and 
raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  he  looked  up  at  the  great 
lawyer. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me  for  not  a-gittin'  up,  sir.  Take 
a  seat ;  I'm  a  bit  poorly  to-day." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  sir;     I  understand — I  see — I  see; 


268  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

pray  don't  disturb  yourself.  My  name,  Squire,  is  Legg — 
John  Legg,  sir." 

He  might  have  added  that  the  ropers-in  and  cappers 
about  the  police  courts  called  him  Jack  Legg — but  as  it 
would  have  been  irrelevant,  he  concluded  otherwise.  Old 
Man  Dodd  held  out  a  withered,  toil  and  time  beaten  hand, 
that  looked  more  like  a  plaster  cast  than  flesh  and  blood. 
The  great  lawyer  shook  it  and  laid  it  back  tenderly  on  the 
coverlet,  which  was  unnecessary,  for,  though  worn  and 
wasted,  it  had  strength  enough  left  for  more  exertion  than 
that.  But  Mr.  Legg  was  politic,  as  all  great  lawyers  are,  I 
dare  say,  and  Mr.  Legg  also  wished  to  be  tender  with  the 
hand  that  would  doubtless  count  him  out  those  nice,  crisp, 
new  greenbacks.  Deacon  Hicks  and  Pedro  when  they 
planned  their  robbery,  had  given  very  little  thought  to  any 
portion  of  Old  Man  Dodd's  anatomy,  but  the  great  lawyer 
was  not  made  of  so  stern  a  stuff. 

"How  is  my  boy,  Mr.  Legg?"  asked  the  old  man,  when 
he  had  sufficiently  mastered  himself. 

"Squire — I — ah,  young  Dodd  is  physically  as  well  as 
could  be  expected.  He  is  being  treated  kindly.  I  myself, 
sir,  admonished  the  warden  to  look  to  him — good  bed, 
plenty  to  eat,  and  all  that — but — ah — Squire — I'm  a  plain, 
honest  man,  and  anything  but  the  truth  on  an  occasion  like 
this — ah — as,  indeed,  on  all  occasions — is  repugnant  to  my 
nature.  Therefore,  Squire,  I  must  tell  you  as  a  father  to  a 
father,  that — ah — youngfDodd  is  mentally  upon  the  cross." 

The  old  man  sighed  and  made  a  movement  with  his 
hand,  but  said  nothing.  The  great  lawyer,  who  had  paused 
diplomatically  for  an  interruption,  saw  that  the  motion 
was  merely  towards  an  old  dingy-looking  Bible,  so  he  pro- 
ceeded : 

"Yes,  Squire,  mentally  on  the  cross.     The  State  is  bend- 


THE   ROMAN   FATHER.  269 

ing  every  effort  to  make  an  example  of  him,  and  what  can 
one  weak  boy  do  when  hounded  by  a  great  State?  Yes, 
Squire,  mentally  on  the  cross,  and  if  you  were  only  there 
in  the  City  and  could  hear  the  universal  condemnation  of 
the  poor  boy's  rash  act,  you  would,  Squire,  appreciate  the 
well-nigh  desperate  condition  of  your  son.  But,  Squire, 
he  will  have  a  trial — his  day  in  court,  you  know — and  I 
will  see  to  it,  sir,  that  the  hell  hounds  don't  make  a  victim 
of  him.  It  will  require  the  strongest  and  most  untiring 
energy  I  have  ever  put  in  any  ease ;  but,  Squire,  I  will  not 
sit  idly  down  when  a  fair  young  life  is  about  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, without  a  protest,  sir,  a  vigorous  protest."  His  emo- 
tion stopped  him,  and  while  he  covertly  peeped  over  the 
folds  of  his  handkerchief,  he  noted  tears  welling  up  into  the 
old  man's  eyes,  and  thought,  "Now  I'll  land  him." 

When  he  again  began,  he  so  worked  on  the  father's  love, 
that,  at  last,  the  old  man  arose,  and  pausing  a  moment, 
said: 

"Go  back  to  him,  Mr.  Legg,  and  tell  him  all  that  can  be 
done  will  be,"  and,  raising  his  voice,  called,  "My  dear, 
bring  me  paper  and  pen,"  and  then  said  to  the  great  law- 
yer, "The  Sheriff  has  all  my  money  in  his  safe ;  I'll  write 
you  an  order.  I  expect  Andy  will  be  a-needin'  some  along, 
and  I  might  as  well  pay  you  now  as  any  time." 

Mr.  Legg  thought,  "Well,  I  should  say,"  but  replied: 
"Tut,  tut,  Squire,  my  humble  fee  can  abide.  I  trust  John 
Legg  can,  in  a  time  like  this,  forget  base  money.  Yes, 
Squire,  I  know  he  can,  and  I  only  wish  others  could.  But 
— ah,  me,  Squire,  repeated  knocks  and  bruises  in  my  pro- 
fession has  taught  me  otherwise.  My  fee  may  wait,  Squire, 
but  we  will  need  money;  public  opinion,  at  all  times  un- 
fair, is  so  warped  now,  that  nothing  but  the — ah — sinews 
of  war  can  fight  it.  With  a  sufficient  sum,  though,  we  can 


27O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

say  to  public  opinion  and  to  the  State:  'Cry  and  rage  as 
you  will,  we  have  the  jury  !'  '' 

Old  Man  Dodd  looked  down  at  the  great  lawyer  vacantly 
for  a  moment,  as  though  incapable  of  grasping  his  mean- 
ing. Then  he  asked  slowly,  and  emphasizing  every  word: 

"Do — I — understand — you — to — mean — bribery?" 

"Well — ah — my  dear  sir — the  great  aim  is  young  Dodd's 
release,  and  the  end,  you  know,  justifies — " 

"Stop !"  cried  the  Eoman  father — no  longer  decrepit  Old 
Man  Dodd,  crushed  with  sorrow,  but  righteous  wrath  per- 
sonified. Oh !  may  the  day  come  when  we  can  say  the 
American  father ! 

"Stop,  sir !  That  is  a  lie,  a  miserable  lie.  No  end  will 
justify  breaking  the  law.  That  sinful  doctrine  has  put  my 
boy  behind  the  bars,  and  has  broken  the  hearts  of  millions. 
Andy  shall  have  a  fair,  open  trial,  sir,  which  is  his  right, 
and  all  that  can  be  honorably  done  for  him  and  his  case, 
will  be  done  if  it  takes  my  all ;  but  I  shan't  spend  a  penny 
to  bribe  a  jury.  You  kin  take  your  fine  ducks  to  another 
market,  Mr.  Legg.  I'll  have  a  lawyer  to  defend  my  boy, 
but  I'll  have  an  honest  man  first.  There's  the  door.  My 
dear,  you  needn't  mind  about  the  paper." 

The  Eoman  Father  kept  his  word.  Sick  though  he  was, 
and  broken  down  at  heart,  he  boarded  the  first  train  to 
Town,  and  found  an  honest  man  and  a  lawyer  combined. 
Something  of  a  rarity,  the  wits  would  have  you  believe,  but 
I'm  proud  to  say,  not.  /True,  the  shyster,  the  jack-leg,  and 
the  police  court  tout  aboundeth  thicker  than  fleas  on  a 
mangy  hound,  but  they  are  not  lawyers,  and  don't  insult 
lawyers  by  calling  them  such.  You  don't  call  these  fakirs 
who  go  about  the  country  selling  nostrums,  doctors;  you 
don't  call  these  hobo  sky  pilots  preachers ;  then,  why  in  the 
name  of  common  fairness  do  you  call  Mr.  Jack  Legg  a 


rTHE   ROMAN   FATHER. 

lawyer?  Life's  dictionary  is  as  accessible  as  Webster's. 
Andy's  lawyer  made  a  hard,  conscientious  fight  for  his 
client.  He  was  a  man  who  never  drummed  a  case  or  a 
jury,  and  before  the  solid  citizens  of  the  City  his  name 
stood  untainted.  His  jury  was  of  such,  and  he  saw,  step 
by  step,  that  Andy  got  all  that  reason  could  ask.  But  it 
was  hopeless  from  the  start.  Justice  had  sealed  the  per- 
verse fate,  albeit  with  the  wax  of  mercy,  and  the  Eoman 
Father  went  back  to  his  little  bare  room  alone — calm  in  his 
integrity,  but  bowed  down,  he  felt,  for  the  last  time. 

Dud  was  his  constant  attendant,  and  all  Pike  came  to 
his  bedside,  but  he  had  heard  the  Voice  calling  from  on 
high,  and  he  set  his  house  in  order  and  laid  open  his  books 
for  the  Great  Settlement.  One  night  Dud  tiptoed  in  and 
beckoned  the  village  doctor  aside.  He  had  a  newspaper  in 
his  hand,  and  taking  the  doctor  near  a  lamp  showed  him 
the  following: 

" Andy  Dodd,  the  young  man  recently  convicted  of  mur- 
der in  the  second  degree  and  sentenced  to  fifteen  years, 
made  a  break  for  liberty  this  morning  before  day,  and  was 
shot  by  a  sentry.  He  died  before  medical  assistance  ar- 
rived." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  and  folded  the  paper,  and 
Dud  said,  under  his  breath : 

"Yes,  let's  spare  him  that  blow.  He'll  know  it  soon 
enough  in  Heaven." 


Some  few  weeks  later  a  cashier  of  one  of  the  City  banks 
stepped  back  in  the  President's  office  and  said : 
"That  Doyle  mortgage  is  due  soon.     Foreclose?" 


2/2  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

"Yes ;  they've  got  nothing/' 

Just  then  somebody  knocked  lightly  on  the  glass  door, 
and  the  cashier  on  opening  it,  beheld  a  square-built,  smooth- 
shaven,  rather  handsome  fellow,  who,  notwithstanding  the 
rural  simplicity  of  his  dress,  had  a  well-informed  air,  and 
a  determined  eye. 

"The  President  in  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Yes,  sir/'  answered  the  cashier. 

"This  is  him/'  put  in  the  President." 

"You  have  a  mortgage  on  Mrs.  Sallie  Doyle's  place,  down 
in  Pike?" 

"We  have." 

"I've  come  to  take  it  up." 

"You  come  from  the — ah — Mrs.  Doyle  ?" 

"As  her  representative." 

"Your  name?" 

"Trenome."  _ 

"Oh — ah — are  you  the  gentleman  appointed  Sheriff  dur- 
ing the  trouble  down  there  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you.  We  have  been  hearing  some  ex- 
cellent accounts  up  here  of  your  fidelity — quite  a  deplorable 
tragedy  that." 

''Very." 

"So,  Mrs.  Doyle  desires  to  take  up  the  mortgage.  No 
hurry  at  all.  We  were  just  discussing  it,  and  thought  pos- 
sible an  extension  might  be  agreeable  to  her  in  the  light  of 
recent  events." 

"It  would  have  been  but  for  a  legacy.  An  old  gentleman 
died  there  right  recently  and  left  her  his  money." 

"Ah,  indeed — relation  ?" 

"No — father  of  the  boy  who  murdered  her  son." 

"Ah,  wwleed!" 


THE   ROMAN   FATHER.  273 

"I'm  his  executor.  Here  is  his  will — all  legcJ;  I  want 
to  do  this  unbeknownst  to  her." 

There  was  some  parleying  and  demurring  over  the  rather 
unusual  procedure,  but  when  Dud  set  his  jaws  square  to- 
gether, and  produced  those  nice,  crisp,  new  greenbacks, 
they  fascinated  the  President  as  easily  as  they  had  done 
Hicks,  Pedro  and  Legg. 

Dud  took  the  mortgage  to  Pike  and  stopped  in  at  Mother 
Doyle's. 

"How's  Betty?"  he  asked  of  Laura. 

"Better,  Mr.  Trenome,  but  the  doctor  says  her  mind  will 
never  entirely  recover." 

"Mother  Doyle  well?" 

"Yes — she's  at  the  cemetery." 

"Just  give  her  these  papers  when  she  comes,  and  tell 
her  it  ain't  any  use  o'  sayin'  she  won't  take  Old  Man  Dodd's 
money ;  it  ain't  hers  to  take  any  more." 

He  put  off  down  the  walk  and  Laura  called : 

"Come  and  see  us ;  I'm  going  to  keep  the  school  still." 

"All  right,"  he  answered.  "Glad  you  made  up  your 
mind  to  stay,"  and  then,  as  he  shut  the  gate  and  gave  a 
parting  look  at  her  sweet  face,  he  murmured,  with  a  humor- 
ous smile : 

"Dogged  if  I  didn't  cuss  'em  once  for  votin  'her  in;  I 
always  was  a  plum  fool !" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  OLD  STORY — EVER  NEW. 

IT  WAS  a  beautiful  day  around  Pike.  You,  who  have 
seen  Dixie  weather  at  its  best,  will  understand  that  "beau- 
tiful day"  means  beautiful,  and  that  even  then  the  word  is 
mild. 

The  sky  wore  a  lustrous  blue,  between  the  tints  of  sap- 
phire and  turquoise,  and  in  all  the  bright  firmament  there 
was  not  a  cloud  to  haze  the  great  mass  of  azure.  Toward 
the  westward  hung  the  Sun,  blazing  in  his  golden  splendor 
— supreme,  magnificent.  From  the  northeast  anon  came  a 
breeze,  something  stronger  than  a  zephyr,  that  brought  with 
it  a  delightful  fragrance  of  field  and  forest ;  and  way  off  to 
the  South  rose  gently  the  clear  outlines  of  a  range  of  hills, 
where  the  taller  pine-tops  could  be  seen  nodding  like  so 
many  staid  old  planters  enjoying  a  Sunday  evening's  nap. 
Oh !  'twas  a  heavenly  scene,  and  one  to  cause  him  who  wor- 
ships Xature  a  peace  scarce  known  in  this  worrysome  life. 
A  scene  which  made  Dud  feel,  as  he  gathered  a  great  arm- 
ful of  ferns,  that  surely^ome  angel  was  tenderly  and  noise- 
lessly rolling  the  world"to  that  haven  whose  horizon  is  eter- 
nal bliss. 

He  had  been  gathering  ferns  in  the  little  valley  where  he 
had  so  often  spent  hours  of  reverie — hours  that  had  not 
been  always  happy,  but  were  happier  there  than  elsewhere, 
because  his  heart  had  dedicated  the  valley  to  Laura.  It 
was  her  shrine  to  him;  it  was  there  the  early  light  of  his 
[274] 


THE  OLD  STORY — EVER  NEW.  275 

love  dawned,  and  it  was  there  that  hope,  immortal  child  of 
love!  found  birth.  Its  every  slope  and  crevice,  rock  and 
rill,  were  sacred  to  him,  and  the  most  favored  son  of 
wealth  could  not  mar  its  holiness,  though  he  offered  the 
Klondike  in  return. 

Let  the  weather  be  ever  so  stormy,  it  never  kept  Dud 
from  his  regular  visits  to  the  valley;  while  fair  days  saw 
all  his  leisure  hours  spent  in  some  of  its  more  secluded 
glens,  now  reading  one  of  dear  old  Mat's  books,  now  gath- 
ering a  profusion  of  wild  flowers — flowers  that  She  loved  so 
well — and  now,  sweetest  hours  of  all,  painting  on  future's 
canvas  an  idyll  of  hope,  love,  and  fancy.  Those  were  hal- 
cyon days  for  Dud,  made  so  by  the  dreams  of  more  halcyon 
ones  to  come.  And,  yet,  at  times  he  thought,  with  a  sink- 
ing of  heart,  what  would  he  do  if  they  should  end  in 
dreams — only  dreams.  Then  he  would  close  his  eyes  and 
refuse  to  contemplate  it,  and  lo !  when  he  opened  them 
again,  the  golden  bank  glittered  with  the  old  light — the 
dark  cloud  had  vanished  ere  it  had  well  appeared,  and  Re- 
solve would  spring  forward  stronger  than  ever.  Yes,  Re- 
solve would  spring  forward,  and  Dud  would  eye  some  way- 
ward red  bird  with  stern  determination,  and  whisper 
through  clenched  teeth  in  a  vastly  melodramatic  fashion, 
and  with  all  that,  it  would  go  no  further  than  the  valley. 
The  wayward  red  bird,  on  his  rounds  to  his  haunts  and 
harems,  would  keep  the  secret,  drat  him !  and  never  stop  by 
Laura's  window  and  whisper  aught  of  those  brave  resolves ; 
while  Dud,  poor  fellow,  would  drive  up  to  the  Doyles's  and, 
like  the  French  general,  drive  back  again,  hie  to  the  valley 
and  resolve  it  all  over  anew.  So  it  had  gone  on;  month 
after  month  had  slipped  by — Dud  and  Laura,  often  accom- 
panied by  Mother  Doyle  and  Betty,  had  paid  loving  pil- 
grimage to  Mat's  grave  and  decked  it  with  the  simple  but 


276  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

exquisite  flowers  and  ferns  which  grow  nowhere  else  with 
the  myriad  variety  that  they  do  in  bonny  Dixie ;  then,  back 
from  their  sweetly  solemn  mission,  they  had  sat  on  the 
broad  porch,  supper  over,  Mother  Doyle  wrapped  in  hal- 
lowed memories  of  the  loved  and  lost ;  dear,  tender  Betty, 
softly  humming  the  "SVanee  River,"  or  some  like  air,  and 
anon  smiling  through  the  silently  growing  dusk  at  some 
early  star — the  sound  of  a  far-off  night  bird  peeping  out 
from  murky  den  to  bid  adieu  to  day,  a  faint  whistle  away 
in  the  distance  of  an  oncoming  train,  and  Laura  rocking 
softly,  her  eyes  closed,  and  some  favored  bud  or  blossom 
nestling  against  her  fair  cheek.  Then  it  was  that  Dud's 
resolve  would  mount  to  untold  courage  and  verily,  verily, 
his  hands  would  almost  seek  the  forbidden  precincts  of  his 
Goddess,  when  that  miserable,  plotting  oncoming  train 
would  give  a  whistle,  a  screech,  a  roar,  and  dash  thundering 
by,  knocking  Eesolve  into  a  heap  of  timidness. 

It  was  still,  as  it  had  been  all  along,  "Miss  Hennon;" 
and  if  Dud  ever  did  speak  her  Christian  name,  it  was  down 
in  the  little  valley  where  none  but  that  wayward  red  bird 
could  hear,  and  he,  the  scamp,  could  never  take  a  hint  and 
tell  Laura.  So  there  it  was,  thought  Dud,  there  it  was, 
and  in  a  pretty  bad  state  at  that :  "Miss  Hennon"  and  "Mr. 
Trenome"  when  they  met ;  "Miss  Hennon"  and  "Mr.  Tre- 
nome" when  they  parted — cordially  enough,  as  far  as  it 
went,  but  how  in  the  name  of  common  sense  could  Cupid 
get  very  far  with  nothin'g  but  "Miss  Hennon"  and  "Mr. 
Trenome"  ding-donging  in  his  ears ! 

If  there  was  only  somebody  besides  that  blockhead  of  a 
red  bird  to  help  him  out !  But  who  ?  who  ? 

Time  was  when  he  would  have  confided  in  Betty,  and 
she,  whole-souled  champion  that  she  was,  would  have  braced 
him  up  for  any  venture  and  seen  him  through  to  defeat  or 


THE  OLD  STORY — EVER  NEW.  277 

victory.  But  that  time  was  no  more,  and  Dud  sighed  bit- 
terly as  he  thought  of  it — bitterly,  but  not  selfishly.  Far 
from  it.  Though  it  would  have  wrenched  his  heart  a 
thousand-fold  more  than  it  did  the  day  Mat  declared  his 
love  for  Laura,  he  would  have  willingly  given  up  all  hope 
of  being  more  than  her  friend,  to  have  seen  the  old  time 
back — to  have  seen  Mat  successful,  proud,  with  honest 
pride,  of  duty  well  done — to  have  seen  Betty  her  old  sweet 
self,  happy  and  well,  and  poor  Andy  alive — but  why  go  on 
with  such  thoughts.  They  brought  no  realization  of  any- 
thing but  sorrow ;  they  led  ever  to  that  fearful  night  when 
the  hellish  rage  of  lawlessness  wreaked  its  fury  on  the 
noblest  of  the  noble — Mat  Doyle — and  living  that  night- 
mare over  again  helped  not  its  victims. 

No,  no;  not  Betty.  She  would  help  him  in  this,  as  in 
other  things  of  yore,  but  it  was  cowardly  to  even  dream  of 
having  her  afflicted  mind  do  that  which  he,  a  sane,  strong 
man,  feared  to  attempt. 

Nor  would  Mother  Doyle  do.  Dud  knew  that  Mother 
Doyle  had  once  hoped  to  see  Laura  her  daughter,  and 
though  he  knew,  also,  that  now  when  she  could  no  longer 
cherish  that  hope,  if  there  was  anything  that  would  bring 
her  happiness,  it  would  be  his  and  Laura's  union.  Yet  he 
felt  a  keen  sensitiveness  about  laying  bare  his  heart  to 
Mother  Doyle.  At  times  he  suspected  she  read  his  heart 
withal,  especially  when  she  had  performed  some  of  her 
many  little  acts  of  kindness  to  them  with  the  solicitude  that 
none  but  mothers  know.  But  his  respect  for  her  sorrow 
kept  him  silent. 

Thinking  these  thoughts  over  again  for  the  thousandth 
time,  he  at  last  gathered  up  the  result  of  an  hour's  pleasant 
task,  a  big,  double  armful  of  all  the  different  sorts  of  ferns 
in  which  the  valley  abounded.  The  day  was  the  anniver- 


278  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

sary  of  Mat's  death,  and  they  were  going  to  make  a  verit- 
able flower  throne  of  his  resting  place.  Dud  carried  the 
offering  up  to  the  roadside  where  his  pony  was  haltered, 
and  shortly  he  was  astride,  heading  towards  Pike  and  fairly 
concealed  behind  the  ferns. 

Mother  Doyle  and  Laura  were  on  the  gallery  when  Dud's 
pony  rounded  a  turn  in  the  road  that  stretched  a  half  mile 
or  more  straight  past  the  Doyles'.  To  a  superficial  observer 
lacking  a  telescope,  it  would  seem  that  a  pony,  breed  or  sex 
undiscoverable,  with  a  huge  bunch  of  something  or  other 
green  on  top  of  it,  was  making  headway  toward  them ;  and 
as  for  Mother  Doyle,  she  wasn't  sure  whether  it  was  a  pony 
or  a  cow. 

"There  comes  Mr.  Trenome,"  called  Laura,  in  a  tone 
suggesting  that  "Mr.  Trenome"  was  the  very  last  person  in 
the  world  she  expected  to  see  coming. 

"Who — Dudley?"  queried  Mother  Doyle,  shading  her 
eyes.  She  had  never  failed  to  ask  that  when  Laura  spoke 
of  "Mr.  Trenome" — because  Mother  Doyle  had  never  called 
him  anything  else  but  Dudley  all  his  life. 

"Who — Dudley?  Why,  Laura,  I  can't  make  him  out; 
you  mean  way  down  yonder  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am ;  don't  you  see  ?  Why,  I  can  see  him  plain 
as  day — wave  to  him,  mother,  he's  waving  at  us."  So  it 
was  evident  that  Dud  could  see  as  plain  as  day,  too. 

"I  give  it  up,  Laura — your  eyesight  is  better  than  mine," 
remarked  Mother  Doyle^  still  shading  her  eyes  and  looking 
with  all  her  might. 

"Is  it?"  Laura  asked,  innocently,  and  then  she  blushed 
ever  so  red.  There  isn't  the  slightest  doubt  but  what  Dud 
saw  that  blush,  for  his  pony  quickened  her  pace  dread- 
fully. 

"Well,  mother,"  continued  Laura,  hastily   (she  always 


THE   OLD   STORY — EVER    NEW.  279 

called  her  mother  now),  I  didn't  really  see  him  at  first,  but 
you  know  we  all  were  expecting  him  to-day,  and  when  I 
saw  the  big  bunch  of  ferns — that  is,  I  mean  bunch  of — " 
and  she  stopped  and  blushed  ever  so  red  again,  for  how  in 
the  world  could  she  tell  that  they  were  ferns  and  not  see 
him.  But  nobody  saw  her  blush — Mother  Doyle  was  still 
looking  with  all  her  might,  and  the  fast  nearing  horseman 
was  completely  hid  behind  those  ferns — no  doubt. 

"Whoa — ho  I"  he  sang  out,  reining  up  at  last  and  calling 
to  all:  Betty  had  come  out  by  this  time  and  was  on  her 
way  down  the  walk,  for  she  always  took  the  pony  around 
the  lane. 

"Howd'y  everybody — hello,  Betty,  how  goes  it  ?" 

"Fine,  Dud,  fine,  and  here's  my  pony,  bless  her  heart !" 
She  opened  the  gate  and  clapped  her  hands  gleefully,  and 
then  vaulted  into  the  saddle  and  cantered  merrily  around 
to  the  lot.  Dud  watched  her  as  he  started  for  the  house 
and  thought,  "Poor  girl — maybe  it's  better  so;  she  knows 
no  care  now,  and  if  Andy  had  married  her,  ah,  me — "  But 
it  was  no  time  to  show  sadness  on  his  face  or  harbor  it  in  his 
bosom.  There,  waiting  on  the  steps  to  meet  him,  were 
Mother  Doyle  and  She  whose  presence  was  to  happiness 
what  the  Sun's  rays  are  to  life. 

They  shook  hands.  Dud  said  "Howd'y,  Miss  Hennon," 
mighty  warmly,  while  Laura  responded,  "Glad  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Trenome,"  mighty  cordially,  and  it  was  but  a  few  min- 
utes before  Betty  joined  them  with  a  basket  of  honey- 
suckles, roses  and  lilies.  They  started  for  the  cemetery, 
walking  leisurely  and  chatting — Betty  with  Mother  Doyle, 
snd  Laura  and  Dud  together — though  Betty  would  fre- 
quently drop  back  a  pace  to  show  them  some  especially 
pratiy  flower  in  her  collection.  When  they  arrived  at  the 
quiet  .spot  in  the  village  burying  ground  where  stood  Mat's 


28O  MATTHEW    DOYLE. 

simple  headstone,  Betty  placed  the  basket  by  the  mound 
and,  kneeling  down,  laid  her  head  on  the  stone  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  the  rest  stood  silent,  and  a  tiny  bird  that  had 
fluttered  to  a  nearby  bough,  stayed  the  piping  notes  that 
welled  in  its  breast.  Oh,  Death !  we  stand  'neath  the  shade 
of  the  tree  that  protecteth  our  loved  one's  grave,  and  even 
though  the  thorn  hath  long  since  been  taken  from  the 
wound  and  Gilead's  balm  hath  healed  its  bleeding,  the  tear 
will  start  and  waken  all  those  joys  and  hopes  so  fond  and 
so  long  gone.  The  heartstrings  of  a  sorrowed  life  will 
answer  mellowed  griefs  soft  touch,  and  sound  to  memory's 
ear  a  plaintive  chord  of  dust  to  dust.  How  sweet,  how 
strengthening,  how  grand  the  thought,  when  we  can  face 
the  marble  slab  whereon  is  marked  that  loved  one's  name 
and  whisper  "Grave,  where  is  thy  victory?"  All,  all  must 
go — "farewell"  must  ever  be  the  last  cry  of  the  loving  soul, 
but  how  soothed  will  be  the  parting  when  we  feel  that  the 
Great  Master  awaiteth  beyond  the  Unknown  Deep  with  a 
welcome  of  "Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful  servant." 

Such  was  the  epitaph  on  Mat's  tombstone,  deserved,  yea, 
deserved  and  earned  with  a  life  of  rectitude.  The  world 
never  appreciates  such  lives  until  it  has  driven  them  into 
eternity — then  it  prates  platitudes  with  noisy  gusto.  I 
never  hear  a  vapid,  senseless  eulogy  on  some  noble  man  or 
woman  long  since  hounded  to  death,  that  I  don't  think  of 
the  scriptural  assassin,  who  asked  "Art  thou  in  health,  my 
brother?"  and  stabbed  his  brother  to  death.  But  enough  I 
Poor  Mat  is  dead — dead  for  a  principle,  and  all  the  mobs 
from  Hell  to  Halifax  can't  kill  that  principle.  When  they 
do,  the  aurora  borealis  will  have  been  snuffed  in  the  waters 
of  Lethe,  primeval  chaos  will  reign  supreme,  and  the  Judg- 
ment Day  will  have  become  ancient  history.  Were  man- 
kind to  discard  the  principle  that  law  is  a  rule  of  action,  the 


THE   OLD  STORY — EVER  NEW.  28 1 

hyena's  ghoulish  feast  would  be  as  the  repast  of  a  chaste 
divinity  beside  the  brutishness  that  would  ensue.  But 
again  enough!  Mankind  won't  commit  universal  suicide, 
rapists  nor  mobs  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 

Betty  lifted  up  her  head  and  the  rest  began  handing  her 
flowers  and  ferns,  while  she  placed  them  over  the  mound  in 
beautiful  clusters ;  a  bunch  of  pure  white  lilies  at  the  head, 
surrounded  by  honeysuckles — in  the  middle  a  cross  of  red 
and  pink  roses  resting  in  a  mass  of  ferns,  and  at  the  foot 
one  large  lily  with  only  a  background  of  green  turf.  They 
were  silent,  all  save  Betty ;  she  smiled  throughout  and  mur- 
mured little  words  of  endearment  that  she  had  so  often  used 
towards  Mat,  and  when,  at  last,  the  lone  lily  was  tenderly 
laid  in  place,  she  patted  the  grass  around  it,  and  looking  up 
at  Mother  Doyle,  said  cheerily :  "Oh !  mother,  won't  our 
own  precious  Mat  be  ever  so  happy  when  he  wakes  and  sees 
all  the  lovely  flowers  we've  brought !" 

"Yes,  Betty,"  tremulously  responded  Mother  Doyle,  tak- 
ing her  daughter's  hand  and  leading  her  gently  from  the 
enclosure,  "dear  Matthew  will  be  happy  and  we  must  be 
happy,  too." 

"Oh !  I  am  happy,  mother,  so  happy,"  she  cried,  with  her 
eyes  uplifted,  "so  happy  to  know  I  have  such  a  sweet,  pure 
brother  waiting  for  us  up  there." 

Dud  and  Laura  looked  affectionately  after  them — 
watched  them  in  silence,  saw  them  pass  out  the  gate,  heard 
the  tiny  bird  nearby  pour  out  its  tiny  psalm  of  gladness, 
felt  the  eventide  breeze  from  the  pine-clad  hills — and  then  ? 
Then  they  were  happy,  too ! 

They  knelt,  hand  in  hand,  beside  that  lowly  grave  and 
prayed  the  blessing  of  him  they  loved,  and  so  praying, 
thanked  God  for  his  life,  his  example  to  lead  them  on  and 


282  MATTHEW   DOYLE. 

upwards  to  the  heights  we  must  climb.     They  arose.     The 
story  was  told — the  oldest,  sweetest  story,  ever  new. 


And  now  they  pass  out,  arm  in  arm,  heart  in  heart,  soul 
in  soul,  and  I  watch  them  even  as  they  watched  the  others, 
and  Dixie's  glorious  Sun  pours  a  flood  of  sinking  light 
along  the  pathway  of  our  friends. 

The  world  is  left  to  me,  but  not  to  darkness,  for  while 
their  forms  are  fading  in  the  distance,  the  moon  comes 
slowly  o'er  the  trees  and  sheds  a  sheen  of  silvery  bliss  on 
Cupid's  conquest,  and  in  that  twilight  blending  of  rays  and 
beams,  I  see  a  vision — nay,  not  a  vision,  but  a  reality,  grow- 
ing clear  and  clearer  on  the  plate  of  future. 

The  Trenome  farm  looks  golden  in  its  mass  of  grain,  the 
pigeons  circle  'round  the  loft  and  coo  their  old-time  court- 
ships o'er  again,  the  drowsy  medley  of  a  barn-yard  crew 
pays  tribute  to  contentment,  and  oh !  bonniest  sound  of  all, 
I  hear  the  prattle  of  a  baby's  voice,  like  some  soft  strain 
from  an  angel's  harp,  and  dear  Betty  holds  the  little  rascal 
up  while  Laura  calls  out  in  the  yard  where  Mother  Doyle  is 
picking  flowers,  "Mother,  what  do  you  think?  Guess! 
Little  Mat's  got  three  teeth;  won't  Dud  laugh !" 


FINIS. 


CO 


